Olympic Tryouts
by Jenja
Summary: Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years. now they're both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don't get along, okay?
1. Part 1

okay so i'm a big hockey fan and my team is in the playoffs so i've got a lot of hockey feels. and i finally have felt some inspiration to write with the glee promo garbage so here's part 1 of who knows? parallels to Miracle because that movie is awesome.

also, i write this on my tumblr ( .com) so i may not be very good at keeping this account up-to-date, but i'll try my best!

* * *

Santana arrived in Colorado Springs the day before tryouts so she had time to settle and get focused for the early morning start. She dumped her bags into her assigned dorm room slightly out of breath, propping four sticks into the far corner and grateful she had the tiny space to herself for now and first dibs on the bed by the window.

The Opening Ceremonies were just shy of seven months away and she had come to her first Olympic hockey tryout in the best shape of her life. Now all she had to do was play her game, skate hard and earn the spot she deserved.

Santana looked down at her watch and wondered how long she would have to herself before her roommate arrived. When she got notice of the assignment the previous week, Santana actually groaned and tore the paper right in half on the spot. What cruel hand of fate had matched her with the star center of her most hated rival? And during Olympic tryouts, no less? She couldn't afford to get in a fight on the first day before they could get out on the ice. Even if it was a goal by Pierce off an uncalled hook and turnover that dashed Santana's hopes for a National Championship the previous year. They had been rivals for longer though, squaring off four years running during the regular season and twice in the Frozen Four. The only consolation for the devastating end of her senior season was that Santana had come away only a few votes in front of Brittany Pierce in the all-American voting for their position.

From their time on the ice together, it had never been more clear that Boston and Minnesota hockey players just really don't mix. A lot of off-puck shoving, a stray slash here and there while the ref wasn't looking, and there was that one minor scuffle that put them both in the penalty box junior year with five minute fighting majors.

The rooming assignment was going to be interesting to say the least.

* * *

Santana hums along to Fleetwood Mac while perched at the end of her bed, grabbing the first stick and peeling the tape on the blade away, then methodically reapplying a fresh job. Suddenly there's fumbling outside the door and jiggling of the handle before a tall blonde and a bag nearly her own size tumble into the room. Brittany is laughing loudly at herself, deep belly laughs that bounce around the room like rubber balls.

The radiant smile and moment of eye contact disarms Santana instantly. Her intimidating facade falters and Santana grasps for words, only managing a distracted "uhhh.." because Brittany's eyes look a whole lot more crisp and crystal without a hockey mask in between. The smile is knocked from Brittany's face as she extends to her full height and sizes you up. "Lopez," she states. Santana doesn't miss the way her right eyebrow cocks up with the acknowledgement.

"Pierce."

"I forgot to congratulate you on the all-American nod, by the way. Although it is a shame they don't include post-season performance in that voting, I'd say," Brittany deadpans, hauling her bags onto her bed and throwing open the zipper.

The anger licks at Santana quickly. "How about you shut the fuck up about last season, never bring it up in front of me again and maybe we can get through the next two weeks without you in the hospital," Santana growls, standing up sharply and throwing down the stick.

Brittany pauses unpacking and pivots toward Santana. "You go ahead and guarantee me a trip to the hospital just like you guaranteed your championship. That turned out in your favor, didn't it?" her voice oozing with thick sarcasm.

At that Santana launches herself across the room, throwing a hard shoulder into Brittany, grabbing a hold of the neck of her tshirt and yanking her forward. The shirt tears and Santana's swinging fist connects with the bread and butter of Brittany's cheekbone with a twack. Brittany reels back then throws her full momentum at Santana, knocking the breath from her and unloading her onto the floor behind.

"FIGHT" comes from the hallway as three players tear into the room, catching a fist mid-swing and pulling Brittany from Santana roughly.

Sanatana jumps to her feet but Quinn is there to throw an arm over Santana's shoulder and across her chest, locking her into a vice. "Save it, Santana," Quinn whispers sharply, "it's over."

Quinn had her fair share of fiery Santana "Snixx" Lopez going on four years now and knew Santana was going to have a nearly impossible time letting what happened in the finals go. But she couldn't help but feel the slightest satisfaction that Santana had gotten in a good swing.

"What, Quinn?! That pansy over there cheap shots me, scores off the turnover and steals the ring right off my finger? Then has the audacity to come in here and bring that shit up in front of me? She deserves worse than the imprint of my knuckles in the side of her pretty face," Santana fumes, chest rising sharply, glaring at the back of Brittany's head as she is pulled from the room.

"Never again, Pierce!" Santana throws out warningly.

It's only when Santana and Quinn hear a distant "fuck off, Lopez," that Quinn shakes her head and releases her grip.

"Just try and get through tonight and onto the ice tomorrow and hope none of the coaches find out about this. From what I hear, Coach Taylor has no patience for fighting within the team," she chides. "No distractions, remember? This is our time, YOUR time, and don't let her take that from you too."

"I know, I know, she just gets under my skin in the worst way. I can't explain it, even. And that smug fucking smirk I just want to slap it into next Tuesday."

"Well, you're going to have to either get over it or take your anger out on the ice," Quinn states, turning to leave the room.

"Never look back, never give up," Santana chants, fistbumping Quinn on her way out. She's in for a long two weeks and potentially seven months if both her and Brittany Pierce are on the same ice and sharing the same room.


	2. Part 2

and here is part 2! thanks again to miracle for being such a movie. not going to lie i was jamming to the movie score while writing this.

* * *

Brittany didn't return to the dorm for the rest of the night and Santana only finally spots her upon entering the locker room at the rink at daybreak the next morning. Brittany is already half suited up facing in towards her locker, and Santana keeps her eyes on her as she crosses the room to her own locker, watching as Brittany pulls the suspenders of her pants deliberately up and over each shoulder. Brittany must feel eyes on her because she turns her head and catches Santana staring. A bruise of deep purplish blue blooms across Brittany's cheek, blood pooling stagnant under her right eye. Santana can't help the smirk that creeps across her own face, holding up her swollen and bruised knuckles with a shrug and fluttering her fingers in an obnoxious yet flirtatious wave. Santana thinks she actually sees Brittany's irises freeze over from all the way across the room, her jaw set hard and scowl akin to Grumpy Cat before turning back to grab her shoulder pads.

Santana just laughs lightly to herself, dumping her bag on the floor in front of her locker before pulling on her pads and lacing her skates up tightly.

* * *

Coach Taylor has them doing suicides before anyone even touches a puck, promising Santana and the 29 other players around her that they better prepare themselves to skate harder than they have ever skated before, every minute of every day or risk getting cut.

"The legs feed the wolf, ladies," Coach barked, whistle poised before his lips and sending them for yet another sprint.

That's all they do for the first two hours of the morning session, only finally stopping after one player, some midget named Rachel Berry, drops to her knees and pukes nearly on the assistant coach's skates.

* * *

Quinn finally catches up with Santana during breakout drills, giving her an affectionate slap to the leg pads with her stick. "You sure did give her a hell of a shiner, Lopez," she jokes, nodding towards Brittany across ice.

"Hellz yeah, I did," Santana gloats, grinning. It feels weird not being paired on the same line with Quinn, considering they had been playing together for years and had a knack for finding each other on the ice. But Santana thinks it's only a matter of time before they're back working together.

When Santana notices Brittany lining up for the next play at center, she nudges Quinn and mumbles, "let me take this one, huh?" skating up to the defensive side of the puck, leaning her stick across her knees and turning to eye Brittany whose eyes never leave Coach Taylor.

He shouts a quick instruction to move the puck quickly and flicks it down the ice in behind the net as the whistle blows. Brittany is off like a rocket, skating hard towards her own net while another player picks up the loose puck along the back boards and starts it up ice. Santana swirls backwards in a slow circle, tracking the puck movement as it makes its way forward. The second the puck handler looks up to Brittany and readies herself to make the pass, Santana digs her edge into the ice and sprints forward, beelining right towards the puck trajectory and catching Brittany with her head down ready to receive the pass. The momentum and impact of Santana's lowered shoulder lifts Brittany clear off the ice before slamming back hard on her side, her helmet smacking off the ice with a crack, snow from the ice coating her like a layer of frost.

There are multiple groans and mumbled condemning comments, whispers of "cheap shot" and "old grudges die hard," as Brittany rises to her knees, forehead pressed to the ice. A few players skate up slowly, ready to offer her a hand up.

"Why the hell are you hitting like that for, Lopez?" questions an Asian girl who skates up into Santana's face as she slowly retreats backwards. She's got the tell tale maroon and gold pants of a Minnesota Gopher but Santana keeps her distance.

"Tell your girl to keep her head up and she won't have to worry," Santana barbs, and at that, Brittany lunges to her feet and throws down her gloves.

"Let's go!" she shouts, skating menacingly forward and raising her firsts as Santana too throws down her stick and gloves. They collide with a crash and Brittany throws two quick hooks before Santana has the chance to brace herself, as her helmet is wrenched off and skitters across the ice behind her. Another one of Brittany's quick punches claps her sharply in the lower jaw.

A few players circle around them, looking for the opportunity to pull them apart, but Quinn is quick to skate forward with a shove and a command of "let 'em go."

There are a few encouraging words thrown to both Brittany and Santana and they continue to wrestle and spar at each other, one hand gripped in the other's jersey, circling around in a strange dance. After a few more traded rib shots, Brittany finally lands a direct jab square into Santana's nose, dropping both to the ice in a heap as their teammates finally moving in to pull the two apart.

Coach Taylor is stone-faced as he circles the group slowly, eyeing back and forth between Santana mopping up the blood that oozes down over her lips and dripping of her chin to speckle the ice and Brittany pulling the tie loose from her hair that was pulled half out and strewn about.

"So how about it, ladies?" Coach asks, looking around. The rink is so quiet, Santana can hear the buzzing of the electricity through the light fixtures overhead. "Look like hockey to you?"

Santana fumes while Quinn drags her backwards, keeping a hand on her shoulder pad as a cautious restraint. Santana's breaths expel in heaves as her adrenaline begins to ebb, her eyes following Coach Taylor's continued slow but deliberate circling.

"Let me tell y'all something and let me make this perfectly clear: if you're here to settle old scores, you're on the wrong team. You can go ahead and pack up your gear and get on the first flight back home." He pauses and switches between looking at them both. Santana and Brittany's furious glares meet briefly before landing back on the coach.

"We move forward starting right now," he asserts, "we start becoming a team RIGHT. NOW," his final two words emphasized with quick whacks of his stick to the ice, and Santana can feel Brittany's gaze on her settle heavy like lead.

"Fundamentals. Conditioning. Creativity. Heart. THAT is what this team will be about, NOT settling old scores." Santana stands just the slightest bit straighter, swiping her sleeve under her nose once more before lowering her helmet back down in silent agreement. She watches Brittany pull on her gloves and roll her shoulders back before nodding and picking up her stick.

"Let's start with some introductions. How about you, Lopez, since you seem so keen to make a name for yourself on day one." It wasn't a suggestion.

She clears her throat, spits the blood from her lips and speaks. "Santana Lopez. Winthrop, Massachusetts. Boston College." Her eyes stay locked on Coach Taylor as his lips press into a line. He studies her quietly for a few seconds before turning and nodding to Brittany, whose eyes move back to Santana and lock into a stare.

"Brittany Pierce. Victoria, Minnesota. University of Minnesota." Santana can't help but let her eyes fall to watch the words tumble from Brittany's mouth. The way her lips tug in and out, pressing together and pulling apart mesmerizes her. Finally she allows her gaze to travel back up and trace around the black eye she marked Brittany with the previous night. She hears others around her speaking but she can't seem to focus on what they're saying. Instead she continues to stare at Brittany with this faint buzzing in her ears, feeling a low but consistent tug in the pit of her stomach as sky blue eyes continue to press into her. She feels suddenly disarmed.

"Okay, let's try this again. Line it up!" Coach instructs, blowing the whistle sharply as the players move back into position and pitching Santana out of her daze with quick shake of her head.

Santana doesn't speak or look toward Brittany any more than necessary for the rest of the morning session.


	3. Part 3

part 3! #cantstopwontstop. i played lacrosse in college and used to play horse all the time with my coach. i was especially good at hitting the goal post which was fun in theory but unfortunate during actual games.

* * *

Lunch in the university dining hall passes quickly without incident. The Boston and Minnesota players are segregated at tables at either end of the room and eyeing each other cautiously, while the rest of the girls are scattered in between, chatting amicably. Santana would laugh if everyone at her table wasn't so tense, the way things were going you'd think they were all in high school and not fresh out of college.

* * *

Santana cleans and clears her plate, waving a goodbye to Quinn and Mercedes Jones, another ex-teammate, as she doesn't follow them back to the dorms. She spends the two hours between lunch and second session napping on the common room couch of a random building of classrooms, avoiding running into Brittany in their room and stirring up even more trouble.

* * *

She didn't interact with Brittany again until the tail end of the afternoon tryout when all the forwards were scattered across the offensive zone peppering the goalies with shot after shot and the ice was riddled with hockey pucks.

Santana was working on the near side of the goal, trying to sneak wrist shots in the tiny puck-shaped gap between the goalies skate, leg pad and the post.

"Horse," Brittany calls out to her, nodding her head towards the goal when she's got Santana's attention.

"Excuse me?" Santana asks, dumbfounded, one eyebrow raised with a slight grimace.

"Let's play horse. You know, the basketball game? You shoot and if you make it I have to shoot the same shot, and if I miss, well that would give me an H," she explains, as if it was the most obvious thing in the universe.

"Uh, okay," Santana agrees, mostly because she has never been able to say no to a challenge ever since she can remember. And it would feel good to kick Brittany's ass without the consequence of a smashed up nose and sore ribs.

"You first," Brittany orders, skating a languid backwards circle around Santana, eyes flickering back and forth between the goal and her opponent.

When the goalie moves quickly from making a kick save to sliding across the goal mouth to face Santana, she makes one simple deke to her left and snaps a shot perfectly into the far top corner of the net, easily past the streaking glove hand of the goaltender.

Brittany whistles low and long. "Someone isn't messing around."

"Never," Santana urges, skating a long arc back towards Brittany. When she gets close enough, Santana whispers "good luck," as if she was certain that Brittany was well on her way to her first letter.

Santana almost misses how fast Brittany goes from rolling her eyes to turning on a dime and flicking the shot exactly in the same place as Santana.

"Alright I see how this is gonna go," Santana says mostly to herself, planning out her next move. Brittany just sports that shit-eating grin again. Maybe Santana underestimated how good Brittany would be, after all she _is_ technically the second best forward in the country, she was bound to be a standout shooter.

"I'm not sorry about your nose, by the way, you fucking deserved it," Brittany says matter-of-factly, winding up for a slap shot that sizzles just right of the net.

"Yeah, well I'm not sorry for that black eye or that hit this morning, you really do need to keep that pretty head of yours up and that cocky mouth of yours shut," Santana spars back, shooting one that is padded away by the goalie's blocker.

They exchange shots back and forth until Brittany calls "left pipe but not in" and pings one off the left goal post and into the corner of the rink. Santana's shot misses the post by a millimeter, and Brittany barks "HA!" and smugly assigns her an H.

By the time Coach Taylor blows the whistle and yells, "on the line, let's wrap this up!" Santana is a "HOR" and Brittany a "HO".

"It's not over, ya ho," Brittany crows in mock seriousness, changing direction with a hop and shooting off down the ice with a grace that finds Santana trailing her eyes after. Brittany may be the most fluid thing on skates Santana had ever seen.

"Let's go, Lopez," Quinn laughs, bumping Santana in the shoulder and into motion as she glides towards the end line. Santana follows, shaking her head to clear it before skating down the ice and readying herself for the final conditioning sprints of the day.


	4. Part 4

paaaart 4, y'all. sorry it ends sort of abruptly, i'm on my way out of the office early today and am leaving town for the night but figured something is better than nothing.

* * *

Coach Taylor calls Santana into his office before she has the chance to sneak out of the rink.

"Lopez, a word please," he gruffs through the open door to the office, pulling his reading glasses off his nose and dropping the papers he was thumbing through.

"Look, Coach," Santana starts, shuffling in quickly and shutting the door quietly behind her, dropping her bag at her feet. She sits across the desk from him, nervously working her hands together in her lap, pulling at her fingers one by one and trying to figure out how best to explain herself. "I'm sorry about…"

"I'm doing the talking here," he interrupts roughly. He doesn't _look_ angry about earlier, but Coach Taylor has an air of icy disconnection when it comes to showing emotion that scares Santana.

"Look, you're one of the best players here. I know it, you know it, and every other girl out there on the ice and in that locker room knows it too. From what I've seen, you've got a hell of a temper, but you've also got intangibles that every coach loves in a player. From what your college coach has said, you've got a head on those shoulders, a strong hockey sense and awareness on the ice and you've got leadership skills, although I haven't seen those yet."

"Thank you, Coach," Santana mumbles, alternating between looking up at him and down at her lap, where her fingers now pick at the skin around her nails. Santana has never been good at taking compliments, even if they are deserved.

"You're throwing it away," he said poignantly, "and from what I hear, that wasn't the first incident with Pierce." Santana makes eye contact and shakes her head slowly back and forth. She opens her mouth to respond, but Coach Taylor holds up a finger to silence her. "Don't think I haven't watched the film from last year's National Championship, or that I don't get it, because I've been involved in this sport a long time. You know as well as I do that this is a game of inches and things can turn in a second. You have to put it behind you. Starting today, you better change your attitude or you'll be watching this team play next February sitting on your mother's couch at home. I brought you here for a reason, Lopez, and I'd like to keep you here, but you sure as hell 'aint making it easy." Santana is quiet, but nods her head in silent agreement. "And whether you like it or not, Brittany Pierce deserves a spot on this team just as much as you do, so you two better start playing nice. I don't want to have to talk to you again," he finishes, picking up his glasses once more and perching them on the bridge of his nose.

"Understood, Coach," Santana asserts, reaching down to grab her bag and moving towards the door. As she pushes it open, she turns back. "All I've ever wanted was to play on this team," she states, pausing as he looks up again. "See you tomorrow, Coach."

* * *

When Santana gets back to her room, it's empty, although the bag in the corner and clothes strewn on the bed indicate that Brittany had been there, she's nowhere to be found now. Santana can't tell if she's relieved or disappointed.

* * *

Santana sits with Mercedes and Quinn at their same table during dinner, finding herself subconsciously flicking her eyes across the room at the back of a blonde head every few minutes before looking down again at her plate.

* * *

It's Rachel Berry's idea for everyone to go out later that night to unwind over a few drinks at the bar down the street from the dorm. Although Santana is exhausted from the first day of double sessions, she can't turn down Quinn's pout or shake the feeling of how good a cold, frothy beer sounded, so she follows the crowd of players down the staircase and into the night.

The local dive, the Hut, is tiny and dirty, the ceiling covered with tacked up dollar bills covered in permanent marker and business cards. Apparently it was a right of passage for recent college graduates to pin their first business card to the ceiling along with a tip. The lights are low and the bar itself relatively empty, it was Monday after all, and Santana finds herself ordering drinks while Quinn finds them a seat.

Santana lets her eyes wander while she waits, taking in the Rockies game on TV, the ping pong table and pinball machine in the back corner when suddenly she feels someone step up to occupy the spot at the bar beside her, sweatshirt brushing her bare arm.

"Coach brought me into his office today," Brittany states, squinting forward at the beer specials chalked up on a board behind the bar.

"Same," Santana answers, looking sideways at Brittany who is now on her tiptoes and leaning far over the bar. Brittany says nothing more. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to get the bartender's attention, obviously," she says slyly, lopping her head sideways to grin in Santana's direction. That disarming feeling charges back and slips all along Santana's limbs when blue eyes meet brown.

"Guess we have to play nice," Santana relents, breaking eye contact and staring listlessly forward. Brittany doesn't answer, but Santana thinks she hears a quiet hum come from deep in Brittany's throat.

"What'll ya have?" the bartender asks, wiping his hands on a bar towel and staring at you expectantly.

"Pitcher of Coors and whatever she's having," Santana requests, cocking her head towards Brittany.

"Jack on the rocks."

Santana can't help the scoff and the "figures," that mumbles from her lips, but Brittany just grins.

"What? Not man enough for some whiskey, Lopez? Should I get you a straw for that beer?" Brittany jests, throwing a playful but sharp elbow into Santana's arm.

"Just going easy on night number one." It sounds more defensive than she intends.

"Whatever you say, ho," Brittany sing-songs, before thanking her quickly, grabbing the drink and disappearing out the back door.

* * *

Santana finds herself sitting outside in the crisp night air at a picnic table with Quinn, Mercedes, Rachel and two girls you remember from tryouts but can't put a finger on their names. They're talking about some movie that just came out but Santana finds her mind in the clouds and gaze wandering around the back patio.

This time Santana has a clear line to Brittany's face, eyes settling on her and tracing her features carefully. Again, Brittany catches her quickly, lip turning up into a smirk and eyebrow cocking up in mock surprise that once again she found Santana staring. Brittany nods her heads toward the door back into the bar and mouths 'another?'. Santana nods and pushes herself up. She doesn't miss Quinn's skeptical gaze at seeing her follow Brittany inside.


	5. Part 5

this morning has consisted of orphan black and writing part 5. not a bad start to my Sunday. thank you all for reading, it's still crazy to me that people are taking to this story. y'all are awesome.

* * *

Santana follows Brittany inside and straight to the bar, pulling out a stool when she sees Brittany do the same. Brittany orders two shots of Jameson but is otherwise silent, eyes trained on the baseball game on TV. Santana follows the liquor flow in a long arc and splash into each glass, stomach knotted suddenly with nerves. Brittany throws a twenty onto the bar with a mumbled "thanks" then swivels the stool to face Santana. Her expression is determined and Santana waits for her to speak, watching the way Brittany's brow wrinkles slightly as she thinks of what to say.

"Listen," Brittany starts, eyes locking with Santana's. "What happened the past four years happened. I get that you're pissed about last year but you know what? We both know that game, and all the others we've played against each other, could have gone either way. It's hockey and half the time it's just dumb luck." She pauses, pulling the corner of her bottom lip into her teeth and looking away.

At the mention of last season, Santana waits for the anger to hit like an oncoming train, but strangely it never comes. When Brittany turns back, her features have softened noticeably and Santana realizes this is a Brittany she's never seen. Unarmored Brittany is immediately disarming, but then Santana feels something like trust strike low and dim, spider webbing out of her like cracking ice, opening deeper and longer.

"Our whole lives have been for this," Brittany urges, her eyes darting back and forth between Santana's. "Every 5 am practice, every bruise or sore muscle, every goal, every triumph and every single heartbreak. All of it was to get _here_, Santana."

It's the first time Brittany calls her by her first name and it sort of takes Santana's breath away.

Brittany pauses and takes a deep breath. "We both know we're the _best_ players out on that ice and I'm not going to blow this. I've worked too hard to blow this. Just think…"

"You're right," Santana interrupts, reaching for the shot glass and holding it up between them. She hopes Brittany doesn't notice the slight shaking of her hand. "Truce?"

Brittany smirks mischeviously, raises her glass and looks Santana dead in the eye before answering. "Truce. USA all the way, bitches."

They don't break eye contact until their heads are thrown back, whiskey burning a fire, licking down their throats. Brittany looks at her like she half-expected Santana to cringe or maybe even throw up, but Santana shoots it like a champ and plasters on her best _I-told-you-so_. A deep belly laugh bursts from Brittany's lips and a wide smile lights up her face as she shoves Santana's arm lightly. "Ass," she mumbles.

"You're not the only whiskey drinker here, Pierce. Maybe not even the best one," Santana barbs.

"Oh, is that a challenge?" Brittany accuses in mock seriousness.

"Let's save it for when we don't have 7 am practice."

"Probably a good idea," Brittany agrees, continuing to chuckle as Santana hears her name from across the bar and Quinn appears, a pack of players filed in behind her.

"We're headed back, you ready?"

"Yup," Santana calls out, before turning to Brittany. "Ready?"

Brittany has that look on her face like she's up to something. "You know it, Lopez. Last one to the dorm is a rotten egg!" she crows, hopping down effortlessly from the stool and taking off for the door like a bat out of Hell.

* * *

Tryouts start off the next day with another hour straight of conditioning. Coach Taylor barks out team expectations and rules in between each set of sprints over the sound of 30 players huffing and puffing to catch their breath.

"We've got seven months to get down to 20 of you, and believe it or not, who stays and who goes is up to you," he challenges. Santana pulls her hands off her knees to stand up straight, batting Quinn affectionately with her stick and nodding at her with encouragement as they line up for the next suicide.

When Coach blows the whistle once more, Santana digs in the edge of her skate and takes off forward at top speed, her fatigued and sore muscles screaming in protest as she pushes harder and faster towards the blue line. She turns on a dime, snow spraying up in a flurry and shoots off in the other direction.

Halfway through the set Santana catches another player in her periphery, gaining on her. Santana pushes even harder forward. Brittany gets within a stick length of catching her but Santana finishes just slightly ahead, stopping quickly before her momentum carries her crashing into the boards.

She's too tired to gloat, but feels Brittany's eyes on her all the same.

* * *

The first time Santana plays on the same line with Brittany happens later in the morning session.

"NO, NO, NO!" Coach Taylor screams, voice booming up into the rafters and bouncing around the rink with an echo. "Pass it! Get it to a POINT, Fabray!" Coach Taylor spends a lot of his time yelling.

Quinn pushes herself up off her knees after the broken play, mouth set in a hard line but eyes on Coach as she skates back into position, shoulders set back resolutely.

"I've got you running this play!" he continues, chewing out Quinn. "Right now all you're going to ride is the bench! Lopez, get out here!" Coach bellows, motioning Santana to take over for Quinn. "Run it again!"

Santana looks to Brittany and nods, then quickly to Rachel, the third forward on their line, making sure both are ready. All three circle the net at the far end of the rink then take off up ice at the sound of the whistle. Santana receives the outlet pass from the defender just in front of her own net mid-stride. She snaps a pass to Rachel on the left wing, arcing around her back side as Rachel carries the puck back across center ice and into the offensive zone, passing it on to a streaking Brittany down the right wing. Brittany meets the pass, attacks the net to draw the goaltender before faking a shot and finding Santana all alone on the back side of the net. The pass is crisp and perfect, cutting through the crease before redirecting off the blade of Santana's stick and into the back of the net. Cheers erupt from multiple players scattered about the ice and those waiting in the bench area.

"You three!" Coach Taylor calls out, getting their attention as they skate slowly together back up ice, congratulating one another quickly. "Run that again!" he orders.

Rachel shrugs and skates off, and when Santana turns to Brittany, she's smiling like she knew this would happen all along.


	6. Part 6

for some reason this one took a lot longer to write than the others.

you guys are awesome.

* * *

During the last hour of Tuesday's marathon afternoon session, Coach Taylor finally divides them up for a team scrimmage to close out the practice. Coach Roz splits them up evenly, keeping Rachel, Brittany and Santana together on the same line. Santana smirks before skating off for the opening faceoff.

* * *

After only the first two minutes, Santana realizes that playing with the Olympic team is nothing like playing in college. The game feels twice as fast, especially when they're playing a full ice scrimmage and with a bunch of players who are used to being the best and fastest players on their respective teams. Santana feels like she spends half her time chasing the puck like monkey in the middle, trying in vain to anticipate where the puck might go next.

* * *

"FUCK!" Santana screams, as she turns to trail the three-on-two down ice after turning the puck over in the offensive end. Hustling, she catches the puck handler at the far blue line and lifts the stick from behind, stealing the puck away quickly.

"YUP!" she hears Brittany scream before she can even turn her head up ice. Santana feels herself moving before her brain gives the order, hips squaring and snapping a perfect pass to hit Brittany mid-stride along the right boards. She then speeds forward to trail the play, tearing after Brittany as she attacks the defender on the one-on-one and wraps a no-look behind-the-back pass to a wide open Santana. Her shot snaps low and hard between the goalie's outstretched legs and sweeping stick and into the goal.

Brittany erupts with a loud "WOOOOO!" before her momentum takes her crashing backwards into the boards, hands thrown in the air. Santana pumps a fist while cutting a tight circle around the back of the net before throwing both arms up and getting bear hugged by Brittany.

"Fuck. Yeah," Brittany breathes, smacking Santana's helmet with each word. Their other teammates swarm quickly, crashing one by one into the pile and slapping them both on the shoulder pads.

Santana can't help but think that _this_ is the teammate she's been waiting for.

* * *

The next shift Santana is on the ice, she finds herself on a breakaway. The defender, Tina Cohen-Chang, a teammate of Brittany's at Minnesota, is only half a stride behind and trying to muscle Santana off the puck, swatting her stick at Santana's skates and throwing her weight around. Santana feels her edge catch on Tina's stick blade and her body start to fall forward so she pitches onto her stomach, sliding across the ice and whacking the puck desperately. It careens right in front of the goal where Brittany is poised with her stick cranked back to slap it into the net.

Santana tracks the puck hitting twine before slamming shoulder first into the back boards. She grins wildly, pushing herself onto her forearms and craning her neck to find Coach Taylor looking at her. She's convinced she sees the ghost of a smile flit across his features before Brittany has her by the back of the jersey, yanking her to her feet and whooping loudly.

* * *

They win the scrimmage by one, Coach Taylor ending the practice with one final full ice sprint. After the final whistle, Santana is quick to congratulate Quinn on her two slapshot goals to carry the other team in scoring.

Santana thinks Quinn looks happier than she's ever seen her.

* * *

Dinner passes quickly with impromptu position meetings, the forwards and defenders split up reviewing their respective playbooks. Santana catches Brittany staring three separate times while Rachel rambles on and on.

* * *

Brittany wins another footrace back from dinner, although Santana blames both Brittany's head start and longer legs as the two main contributing factors to her defeat.

"You're such a cheater," Santana whines, scanning her key card and throwing it in Brittany's face as she slides through the door Brittany holds open for her.

"But cheaters never prosper, Lopez," Brittany deadpans, following her up the stairs.

* * *

They're mostly quiet as they get ready for bed, both at one point leaving to use the bathroom across the hall in between small talk about how annoying Rachel's voice is, the fact that neither of them like a girl named Sunshine (what kind of hippie-ass name is that, anyways?) and how they pity whoever tries to put one past Mercedes Jones in net during their first official scrimmage later that week against CU.

Brittany learns that Santana wears contacts and is caught staring for the fourth time that night through the mirror as Santana pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

"Tell anyone and I'll smother you in your sleep," Santana warns, pointing a threatening finger. Brittany's sly grin drops serious before she mimes her lips zipping shut, locking them up and throwing away the key.

"Good."

* * *

Santana falls asleep while Brittany is out in the dorm hallway talking on the phone, her open book laying face-down across her chest, glasses askew and a wet spot of drool pooled on her tshirt. Brittany can't help but chuckle at the sight before grabbing the book and marking the page, carefully pulling off Santana's glasses and flicking off the light.


	7. Part 7

it was hard to find inspiration to keep going on this for awhile there after the Bruins got knocked out of the Stanley Cup playoffs, but i'm back from a long weekend vacation and have at least one part to post today. maybe another tonight if i'm feeling ambitious.

as always, you guys are awesome. this part has a completely different tone than the others, but we're starting to get into their backgrounds a bit.

* * *

The following two days begin to become routine: early morning conditioning sessions (Rachel has only puked once more since day one) followed up by grueling two-a-days that leave Santana dead on her feet by the time dinner rolls around. She spends most of her free time alone in the film room watching every international game she can get her hands on and the rest pouring over the thick playbook Coach Taylor handed her on the way past his office yesterday evening.

* * *

Brittany's alarm sounds off like a nuclear reactor in the wee hours of Friday morning. With a spastic start and loud groan, Santana flips over in bed and covers her head with a pillow as she hears Brittany rustle and reach to silence it.

"Rise and shine, champ!" Brittany chirps, popping out of bed and flicking on the light before throwing a pillow across the room in Santana's general direction.

"What the hell is wrong with you? The sun is not even up yet," grumbles Santana, pushing her hand more forcefully over the pillow and burrowing deeper into the sheets.

"We're going on a run, get changed," Brittany orders, rustling through her half of the closet and whistling idly.

Santana's voice is muffled but defiant. "You need to be committed. Like there is seriously something wrong with you that you want to go running at five in the morning. You do know we have a game this afternoon, right?"

"…and? Whats'a matter, can't take it, Lopez?" Brittany challenges, crossing the room and yanking the pillow off of Santana, revealing her squinting sleepy eyes and mussed up hair. "Come on, lazy bum, I want to show you something. Plus we both know the extra conditioning can only help us at this point."

Santana whines loudly before hauling herself out of bed, silently cursing to herself that for some inexplicable reason she already can't say no to Brittany.

"You suck, you know that?"

"Whatever, get movin'!" she sing-songs happily, scampering across the hall to the bathroom.

* * *

"How's the honker?" asks Brittany, her expression turned serious and eyes trained on Santana who leans over the bathroom sink, pressing gingerly on either side of her swollen nose. Deep purple and blue blood blooms and pools across the bridge, settling darkly at the bottom of each eye socket. Santana tries in vain to dissipate the blood with her fingertips, wincing at the pressure.

"Doc says it's not broken, so at least my mom will be happy about that," Santana relents, shrugging. "Still got this gorgeous face," she croons, slapping on her best megawatt smile.

"You look like a raccoon," Brittany jokes, turning to look at her own reflection.

"Speak for yourself, Spot," Santana barbs back, nodding towards Brittany's own deeply blackened eye.

"I think we look like badasses."

Santana can't help but agree, chuckling and letting her gaze settle on Brittany through the mirror as she pulls her hair up into a knot and begins to wash her face.

* * *

They're the only two on the bus this early, sitting side by side in silence for the short journey across town.

The bus drops them at the park entrance, Santana gulping audibly at the large hill ahead leading up into the mountains. The sign to their right is deep red stone and reads "Garden of the Gods".

"You didn't bring me out here to murder me, did you?" Santana half-jokes, putting in her earbuds and switching on her iPod. Brittany just grins wickedly over her shoulder and winks before taking off up the hill. Santana feels her a swoop in her stomach before chasing after her.

* * *

Although Brittany has a knack for head starts, Santana catches her quickly and has no problem keeping up with her steady pace as they climb higher along the dirt trail, eventually matching each other stride-for-stride as they cover mile after mile through the trees.

* * *

As they approach the highest point of the park, Santana spots the first rays of the sun peeking over the horizon to their left before slamming into Brittany who she hadn't noticed had stopped.

"Ah, fuck! Thanks for the warning, Pierce!" she barks, rubbing at her forehead that just whacked into Brittany's shoulder blade.

"Well, you should be paying better attention," Brittany chides, walking off the path with her hands planted on either side of her head, breathing deep gulps of thin mountain air. "Fuck, it's hard to run in this altitude. Let's take a break before we head back."

"How did you know this place was here?" Santana wonders, perching atop a flat rock alongside Brittany and turning to look over the landscape, her eyes tracing each towering rock formation that bursts from the ground, grasping like extended fingers towards the sky. Santana feels like they are the only two people among the acres of open wilderness unfolded before them, the sun continuing its slow climb upward and washing the edges of the sky with soft oranges and pinks.

Brittany's quiet and lamentful sigh tugs Santana's attention away from the sunrise and instead to the creases appearing in Brittany's forehead, the way her lips purse ever-so-slightly into a pained wince and how her eyes cloud with mist. The seconds of silence pull out and lengthen until Santana has to turn away, instead following a hawk twirling and swooping fluidly overhead.

"My mom was a hiker." It comes out just above a whisper but thick and strained with something Santana can't place. "She took me here once." Santana can only nod, turning towards Brittany once more and waiting for her to continue.

"She's dead now." The words leave Brittany heavily and settle around them like thick fog as she turns to meet Santana's eyes, tears pooling and dropping in quick trails with a blink. Santana feels her chest tighten painfully.

"I'm so sorry, Britt," she whispers, the nickname slipping out effortlessly as she reaches to grab one of Brittany's hands, squeezing it quickly.

Brittany doesn't let go.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Santana frowns as Brittany's bottom lip juts out and her eyes flit upward in an attempt to stop the tears. Her head shakes slowly back and forth before whispering, "not really. She was diagnosed with breast cancer last year. They tried a bone marrow transplant but she died three months ago." Santana feels a pang deep in her chest at the way Brittany's usual bright disposition is clouded with sorrow, the tears still dripping one by one down her cheeks and off her chin. She does the quick math in her head: Brittany's mom must have been too sick to see Brittany's team win the National Championship, maybe too sick even to see Brittany graduate from college.

Santana can't help but reach forward to catch each tear with a fingertip.

* * *

Neither of them speak again until the sun has climbed high up over the distant mountains and the night is completely chased away with the bright blue sky of day. Brittany sighs and clears her throat before turning back towards Santana.

"It's tough being away from Pop, leaving him with my little sister. They're all going through a bad time, but I need to do this, Santana," she urges, a steadfast look blooming across her features. "My mom wanted this, me playing on this team." Her voice is thick and constricted and although she sounds sad, her face is clear and determined.

"I'm sure she's so proud of you, Britt," Santana whispers, like she's never before believed something so true.

"I can feel her here," Brittany pauses. "That's why I come. Her voice in the wind, her footprints in the dirt. I just miss her," Brittany's voice trails off sadly. "Anyways, we better get back and rest up for this afternoon," she says, clearing her throat and pulling Santana to her feet.

"Okay," Santana agrees, following her back to the path with one final look over the city laid out below them.

* * *

They're quiet all the way back down the hill, Santana foregoing her iPod and instead listening to the pattern of Brittany's huffed breathing and the rhythm of their shoes against the dirt.

Brittany closes her eyes on the bus and they're silent all the way back to campus.


	8. Part 8

part 8 is up!

i may have made up a few words that don't actually exist. also a little cameo by Lion!Quinn in there for good measure. thanks for reading and enjoy!

* * *

Santana gets to the rink an hour before the pregame skate, relishing in the peace of the typically bustling room and settling on the stool in front of her locker. She freezes half way through pulling her sweatshirt off, one arm still stuck and the hood obscuring half of her face when she spots the crisp white jersey hanging in her locker. Up until this point, she had been wearing solid burgundy per her line assignment, but today her sweater is white and there's a shield of stars and stripes large and stiff fixed to the front and her name on the back. She tosses the sweatshirt over her shoulder and traces two fingers along the stitching affixing each letter to the fabric. U. S. A.

The rush of pride swells and crashes brazenly as she studies each new piece of equipment that hangs tidily in her locker. Sometime overnight the deep maroon pants of her Boston College days were replaced with navy blue, helmet now a stark white and unscuffed with a red and navy number 8 centered on the back side.

"We've come a long way, haven't we?" Quinn's voice jolts her out of her daydreaming as she crosses the room to join Santana by their lockers.

"It's completely surreal," Santana concedes, pulling on the brand new pair of gloves and extending her fingers in and out before raising both hands up in front of her face and throwing a few playful boxing punches in Quinn's general direction. Quinn grins widely and plays along, ducking down and back up in quick dodges.

"Old habits die hard, huh? Still have to be the first one in and last one outta here, Lopez?" teases Quinn, her arm sweeping across the otherwise empty room.

"What can I say, I'm dedicated," Santana dismisses, pulling the straps taut on her leg pads.

"Yeah, sure, that or you're trying to avoid a certain roommate slash nemesis." Quinn cocks one eyebrow suggestively, hand on her hip. "What's the deal with you two? First you're at each other's throats, giving each other wicked shiners and now you're like the fucking terrific twosome out there."

Santana feels a quick anger flare for a reason she can't place, like she needs to hate on Brittany to appease Quinn but wants to fiercely defend her all at once. "I'm playing nice," she answers simply. "She's damn good, Q, and we both know it. I guess I'd rather channel my energy from fighting against her to fighting with her. Bygones and all that crap, ya know?" Santana shrugs at Quinn's narrowed eyes, tugging up her socks and pulling on her skates.

"Plus I think I prefer Beavis and Butthead," Santana quips. "She's Butthead."

Quinn laughs and appears suddenly up in Santana's face, poking playfully at her forehead. "Snix? Are you in there? Sniiiiiix? Who is this body snatcher and what did you do with the firecracker I know and love?"

"Quit it!" Santana smacks her hand away like a pesky fly. "Don't stress, Quinnie, I'm sure good ol' Snix will come out to play when that puck drops in a few hours. These college kids have another thing coming if they think they can keep up with this."

* * *

One by one the players step onto the ice for the pregame skate, joining Santana and Quinn at center ice to stretch.

Santana is actively tuning out loudmouth Rachel Berry who won't stop babbling on and on about how much she misses some stupid boyfriend back home when her head reflexively looks up to find Brittany making her way down the tunnel towards the ice. She trails her eyes up long legs and meets Brittany's crystal gaze across the rink. Brittany smirks like she's got a secret before hopping onto the ice and taking off in a quick burst, skating a long arc around their stretching circle and stopping hard and fast enough to spray a flurry of snow all over Rachel.

"He's still in… aaaahh!" Rachel guffaws, pulling her hand free of her glove to brush at her uniform dramatically. "Brittany, was that entirely necessary?" Rachel whines like Brittany just pushed the top scoop off her ice cream cone.

"Sorry not sorry," Brittany retorts, plopping down in between Santana and Mercedes who are both bent over in stitches with laughter.

* * *

Coach Taylor meets them on the ice as they're finishing up stretching.

"Listen up!" he barks, the chatter dying down quickly. "We've got our first test here today against CU. Let's not take them lightly, ladies, they're fast and have some strong players. We'll stick with the lines we've been practicing with this week, Jones, you'll be starting in net," he calls, looking up from his notes and over the frames of his glasses at Mercedes, who nods curtly. "Also be aware that I'll be making the first round of cuts over the next few days."

It comes off like an afterthought, but Santana watches the concern flit across the faces around the circle at the thought of being sent home. "Let's run some breakout drills," he calls, skating away and blowing the whistle to get the group moving.

* * *

Brittany and Santana agree to switch off each shift as to who plays center and takes the face off, both secretly keeping tallies of who wins more for the bragging rights.

* * *

From the first puck drop, it's clear Colorado doesn't stand a chance. Team USA is faster, stronger and more agile on the ice and easily controls the tempo of the game, maintaining the majority of the puck possession throughout the first period.

Although they have yet to score, they apply relentless pressure attacking the net, peppering the CU goalie with shot after shot. Santana knows it's only a matter of time before they're on the board. With the puck on her stick, she blows by a defender by flicking the puck through their skates and slipping around them to pick it up once more, finding Brittany parked in front of the net screening the goalie. She zips a wrist shot on net and although the defender throws a hard shoulder into Brittany knocking her off-balance, she manages to make contact with the shaft of her stick and redirect the puck into the back of the net. Santana meets her mid-fall, wrapping her up and whooping loudly.

When Quinn slams into the pile mid-celebration, she yells "AW YEAH! BEAVIS AND BUTTHEAD AT IT AGAIN BITCHES!" and Brittany has the most priceless dumbfounded look that Santana cackles all the way back to the bench.

"Did Quinn take some crazy pills this morning?" Brittany wonders, sliding into the bench next to Santana and grabbing a water bottle to take a swig.

"What can I say, we're getting a reputation for being unstoppable," jokes Santana, bumping her helmet affectionately into Brittany's.

"But can't we pick a better tandem? Like Bonnie and Clyde or Lucy and Ethel?"

"It may be too late for that, champ," laughs Santana, looking back out over the game as Tina intercepts a pass at mid-ice and charges forward, attacking the net before laying a perfect pass for Quinn trailing the play who winds up and blasts a rocket of a slap shot past the flailing goaltender.

Santana can't help but beam with pride "I taught her everything she knows," she brags, nodding towards Quinn who glides backwards with both arms thrown high in the air and roaring in exhilarated celebration.

"Yeah okay, whatever you say, Butthead."

"No way… you're SO Butthead!" Santana argues, turning back towards Brittany just in time to see her aim the spout of the water bottle through the cage of Santana's mask and spraying her square in the eye.

"You wish, Lopez," she eases, smooth as silk.

* * *

Mercedes is an absolute beast in net, turning away every shot she faces over two periods. The score is a lopsided 4-0 by the time the third period begins, so Santana and Brittany agree to let Rachel take the opening face off. She loses and they vow to never let her take another again.

* * *

Colorado finally gets a break when they catch the US in the middle of a change, the attacker streaking forward towards the net and pitching a shot low and hard. Mercedes moves far out of the goal to cut off the angle of the shot and paddles the puck away easily with her stick. Fresh off the bench and streaking down ice to defend, Brittany picks up the puck against the back boards gathering it quickly and turning up ice.

Santana just manages to haul herself over the boards and onto the ice when Brittany's pass is already streaking towards her. She collects it mid-stride just before crossing over the blue line, catching the defender puck-watching as she slips in easily behind her, pulling the puck to her backhand and away from the pressure as she finesses towards goal. Although the goalie is cutting across the crease to meet her square on, Santana fakes the move to her forehand enough to move the net-minder but stays with her backhand, paddling a shot up over the goalie's shoulder into the top netting, sending the water bottle resting on the net skittering across the ice.

She watches the puck sail into the net before cutting to avoid a collision and turning back down ice, gliding on one skate in celebration and throwing up a euphoric punch. Brittany is still way back by their own net, but points at her, then her own butt and her own head. She finishes it off with a loud "nice moves, Butthead!"

Santana prays the nickname does not catch on, but she doesn't have high hopes.


	9. Part 9

Coach Taylor calls Rachel, Brittany and Santana into his office while they're still in the middle of pulling off their gear. Rachel is the only one who managed to get her skates off, so as they lope out into the hallway outside the locker room and make their way to Coach's office, she looks even more dwarf-like than normal, especially with Brittany at her heels and towering over her like an Amazonian.

Rachel raps quickly on the open office door, hesitating for a half-second before Coach Taylor beckons them inside and to take a seat. He leans back in his chair lazily, eyeing them one after the other over the rims of his glasses.

"What do you three think about me keeping you together? Seemed to work pretty well today," he states, looking down to the paper laid out on the desk. "Three out of five goals with you three on the ice, multiple caused turnovers and you two," he points between Brittany and Santana, "were both pretty consistently winning faceoffs."

They look back and forth between the three of them briefly before Santana nods towards Brittany to speak first.

"We just find each other on the ice. I can't really explain it," she starts, brow scrunching up adorably and voice trailing off while she tries to form a more eloquent response.

"Yeah, it's kind of this weird sixth sense," Santana adds, eyes flitting to Brittany who is looking at her intensely. "I know it doesn't really make sense to have two of our best centers on the ice at the same time, but I don't mind giving up taking the faceoffs and switching to winger if we keep scoring the way have been," Santana finishes, turning back towards Coach Taylor who is once again eyeing them both with something Santana can only pinpoint as a curious skepticism.

"What about you, Rachel? You think this is working with Beavis and Butthead over here?" Coach asks, nodding once more to Brittany and Santana who both sputter open-mouthed with matching wide-eyed expressions of horror. Nothing ever gets by Coach Taylor, thinks Santana glumly.

"Yes, Coach, I do," agrees Rachel. "It's a little different playing with them as can be expected with any new teammates, but we certainly are moving the puck well and making things happen in the offensive zone."

Santana is still trying to get used to the matter-of-fact holier-than-thou tone Rachel has every time she opens her mouth, but agrees either way. "Yup. Pass, shoot…"

"And score," Brittany finishes, smirking. Santana doesn't miss the eyebrow raise from Coach Taylor as he continues to study her like a complicated math problem he can't quite solve. The next few seconds of silence stretch out uncomfortably.

"Alright, we'll see how she goes," he gruffs. "Enjoy the weekend and rest up, you're gonna need it," he finishes, dismissing them with a shooing wave. "And stay out of trouble!" he barks as they file out of the room.

Santana can feel the burn of Brittany's stare through the back of her tshirt as she leads them back to the locker room, Rachel's rambling about their potential trio name and secret handshake like white noise as she focuses on the tingling feeling that pulses from from the pit of her stomach to the tips of her fingers. She flexes them reflexively and tries to hide the smirk creeping onto her face before pushing back into the room to stretch and shower.

* * *

Tina thinks the team needs to do some serious unwinding and offers up her aunt and uncle's unoccupied winter cabin for a party that evening, the team's first. The house is large enough for them to all stay over, even if a bunch have to sleep on the floor, and she orders boxes upon boxes of pizza from the local parlor. She puts Brittany in charge of the liquor "because, duhhh" and although Rachel insists on making the party playlist, Santana pockets her spare iPod just in case.

* * *

"Who wants to start off with some karaoke?!" Rachel squeals, pulling a portable karaoke machine from behind her back as she busts through the front door.

"My god, did you fly with that thing?" Quinn moans, rolling her eyes dramatically and shaking her head back and forth condescendingly.

"Why yes, actually I did, Quinn. No party is truly complete without at least one Rachel Berry musical performance. I'll have you know I was All-State choir all four years of high school back in Massachusetts. My dads say I could have made it on Broadway, but I found the rush of physical activity to be far more worthwhile…"

"Can it, Rachel," Santana interrupts, pushing her way through the entryway and swiftly kicking the machine sideways on her way to the kitchen, arms overflowing with full bottles alcohol ranging in spectrum from clear to dark brown. Brittany follows closely behind with a pony keg of beer hauled over one shoulder and the tap clamped between her teeth. She sets it down into the trash can of ice Tina put out in the corner of the kitchen and in one swift movement screws and locks down the tap, dusting her hands off and beaming with pride. Santana is caught staring for the first time that night because damn, that was hot.

* * *

While the others are mixing their own drinks or gathered around the keg waiting to get filled up, Quinn lines up thirty Solo cups around the perimeter of the kitchen island, grabbing the large handle of Fireball and pouring generous shots down the line into each cup. Santana grins at her over the table approvingly before wolf-whistling loudly.

"Everyone get your asses over here!" she calls. "And turn down that racket for a hot second!"

"Excuse you, Santana! That is Barbara playing!" Rachel huffs from across the room, reaching for the stereo and looking like Santana just insulted her favorite grandmother. Santana's exaggerated eye roll emits a hearty chuckle from Brittany who appears suddenly, pressing their sides together.

"Nice whistle," she whispers, leaning in so close to Santana she forgets to breathe.

"Errr, right," Santana mumbles, clearing her throat loudly to get everyone's attention. "To making it this far," she toasts, lifting her cup high over the table. The rest of the team mirrors her, hoisting the cups into the air and knocking them together into one large mass.

"And to the mother fucking U. S. of A," Brittany adds stoically, before bursting into a snort of laughter and throwing back the shot to loud hooting and hollering. Santana feels herself lose her breath again when Brittany slams the cup down and winks at her as she scampers away back towards the keg.

The Fireball burns hot and fast down her throat as she reaches for another. This could be a long night.

* * *

After her second shot and third gin and tonic, the edges of the room start to soften and the music pulses louder and louder against her eardrums. She takes a break from playing flip cup on the back porch, perching on a stool at the edge of the kitchen and taking in the rest of the party.

Rachel and four others are dancing to Icona Pop in the living room, their heads thrown back and arms in the air as their bodies bob up and down in time with the beat. Santana is surprised to see Quinn out there, she's not typically the dancing type when there are beer games going on. And did she just see her hand graze Rachel's waist or was she imagining that?

Her attention turns this time to Mercedes who yells out a "oh NO you don't!" as she slaps away an attempted bounce shot in the beer pong game going on in the dining room. "Girl, you better check yo'self before trying to bounce against _this_! Don't even play with me," she chides to a blonde named Kitty across the table. At least she's learning her lesson, thinks Santana, who smirks in Mercedes's direction with affection. You never mess with Wheezy; the girl has reflexes unlike any Santana has ever seen.

When the back door slides open, Santana's eyes unconsciously land on Brittany's lithe figure as she squeezes back into the house, looking around the room quickly before finding Santana and making her way towards the kitchen. She's as graceful on her feet as ever crossing the room, not appearing the least bit drunk even though Santana has watched her throw back drinks consistently all night.

"What'dya say, Lopez? Had enough already?" she jokes, poking Santana in the ribs before reaching across the counter for the Fireball and two empty shot glasses she pulls from the sink. She pours them deftly and pushes one in front of Santana, raising the other up for a toast. "To us," she eases, locking their eyes.

"To us," Santana mimics, clinking their glasses together and taking the glass to her lips.

"Wait!" Brittany shouts, freezing Santana dumbly with her hand in mid-air and mouth already half open. She snakes her arm around Santana's so their elbows are linked and with an "okay, now," they throw back the shots in sync.

Santana feels desire burn deep in her belly more than the lick of whiskey down her throat as brown meet clear blue.

Mercedes's roar of celebration interrupts Santana's ogling as she turns in time to see Kitty stalk off towards the back door in defeat.

"Beavis and Butthead do beer pong?" Brittany suggests, tickling Santana's hip before backing away slowly towards the dining room with a beckoning finger.

"Oh, poor Weezy doesn't stand a chance," Santana laughs, snapping out of her daydream and grabbing the empty pitcher to fill from the keg before taking her place next to Brittany at the table.


	10. Part 10

quick turnaround between parts 9 and 10.

a huuuuge thank you to everyone who has sent asks/liked/reblogged this little universe, i can't tell you how much it means to me.

* * *

Mercedes and Tina still have six cups left by the time Brittany tosses a perfect arcing shot to sink the second-to-last cup. "Heating up," Brittany calls out smugly after making her second in a row.

She and Santana sip leisurely as Tina and Mercedes both groan loudly at the opposite end of the table, Tina plucking the ball from the cup and pouring the contents into her own nearly-full cup.

"It's fucking sorcery," Mercedes huffs, shaking her head and lining up to take her shot. It bounces off the rim of the back cup straight into the air where Santana snatches before it has the opportunity to fall into a different cup. Tina's shot is also off the mark.

"Back me up," Santana mumbles, nudging Brittany softly out of the way so she can get a clear line. As she settles her blurry attention on the last cup and lines up her feet, she shakes out her arms and everything becomes quiet. She tunes out the blaring music and the laughs and shouts of encouragement from the bystanders until all she can hear is her own steady breathing. _Come on, Lopez, you can do this, _she thinks, taking one more deep breath before flicking a clean shot looping over the table and draining the last cup smoothly. She roars in celebration and before she knows it, Brittany has lifted her clear off her feet, crowing in celebration.

Once she's back on the ground, Santana grins across the table at the dejected and slack-jawed looks splayed across Mercedes and Tina's faces, feeling the slightest twinge of pity because they just got smoked. She turns to Brittany and bows, sweeping her hand across the end of the table as if presenting her a stage for her final shot. Brittany's smile is so goofy and bright with her head cocked sideways that Santana can't help but grin stupidly back, stifling a laugh at her own ridiculousness.

"Go get 'em, Tiger," she whispers, leaning in close. She swears she sees Brittany shiver, but brushes it off as a figment of her drunken imagination.

"Sorry guys," Brittany warns, before arcing the ball across the table and watching it splash into the cup. "And boom goes the dynamite," she deadpans, hands miming a mushroom cloud exploding and barely holding a straight face as Mercedes and Tina each throw an exasperated free hand into the air and stalk off.

"Next?" Santana shouts to the room, as Brittany throws an arm across her shoulder, knocking her slightly off-balance but grinning like a jack-o-lantern all the same.

* * *

She crosses the line to really drunk after their third straight win on the beer pong table, both leaning heavily on each other in between the final shots of game, giggling at everything and nothing surrounding them. Eventually no one steps up to challenge them, the meager crowd surrounding the table looking like deer in headlights at the prospect.

"You're all chicken shit!" Brittany bursts, before turning towards the sound of Rachel Berry belting out Katy Perry, grimacing in mock-disgust and taking off on a beeline towards the karaoke machine.

Santana is drinking water straight from the tap as Brittany snatches the microphone right out of Rachel's hand mid-verse, flips on an imaginary snapback, brushes some dirt off her shoulder and comes in on point with the Juicy J rap in Dark Horse.

Santana stands open-mouthed and gaping across the kitchen while the tap continues to run, enraptured by this new thug Brittany, her fist closed around the mouthpiece of the microphone held against her lips. She watches as Brittany is completely transformed, a smooth flow as the words tumble effortlessly from her lips and almost other-worldly dance moves that Santana couldn't even dream up. She wonders if Brittany is just good at everything there is to be good at.

She feels a hard slap on the ass as Quinn bounds down the staircase and into the kitchen. Her hair is a wild mane of blonde sticking in all directions and her hazel eyes are slightly unfocused as she leans around Santana and leers towards the ruckus.

"You know if you keep staring, your face may freeze that way," Quinn jests, resting her head on Santana's shoulder and following her gaze to fall upon Brittany who has since relinquished the microphone back to Rachel for the closing chorus but is still pop-and-locking across the carpet.

"You've got a cruuuuuushhhh on herrrrrr," Quinn sing-songs dreamily, snaking her hands around Santana's waist.

"Do not," Santana grunts, shrugging Quinn off roughly. "And shut up, would you?"

"Do soooooo! And now you're all grumpy-gills because I figured it ouuuuut!" Quin crows. Santana hates the pure joy that Quinn gets out of both teasing and having some dirt on her best friend.

"Good thing neither of us will remember this conversation tomorrow," Santana reasons, looking quickly around to ensure no one overheard them before pushing Quinn towards the dance floor and peeling off to the back porch for some air.

* * *

There's still a rowdy flip cup game going on out on the back porch, so Santana drags a lounge chair down the deck stairs and all the way to the back of the yard. It's far enough from the house that it's quiet enough for Santana to get her bearings and try and evaluate her level of drunkenness. She's smashed but not ready-to-puke wasted and is happy to lie back for a quick break from the action, gazing up at the starry Colorado sky and watching the patterns of stars swirl with her spinning vision.

She has her eyes closed when she hears footsteps. "I'm not passed out, don't worry," she throws out to the intruder, not bothering to look.

"Well good, because that would be no fun whatsoever," Brittany teases, sidling up next to the chair. Santana feels her heart beat accelerate so fast it feels like its about to burst from her chest. "Shove over," she orders, prodding Santana's thigh gently until she shuffles enough for Brittany to squeeze in next to her. Brittany has to lie sideways in order to fit, throwing her leg and arm across Santana easily and burrowing her head into the bunched up hood of Santana's sweatshirt. "Mmm you smell good," Brittany whispers, sniffing loudly, "kind of like my dad." Her giggle starts soft until she hiccups suddenly and burps. "Excuse me!" she exclaims politely.

"That'll be my deoderant. Old Spice," Santana mumbles, feeling her face flush immediately as she squeezes her eyes even further shut in embarrassment. She keeps both hands firmly pressed to her sides, rigid as a board and trying her hardest not to spontaneously combust.

"Ha remember when we hated each other?" Brittany hiccups again before pausing. "Tell me about Boston," she whispers, tucking her hand into the front pocket of the sweatshirt and splaying her hand across Santana's stomach. "I feel like I don't know anything about you. We are roommates after all, and maybe future best friends and maybe like the best one-two punch women's hockey has ever seen. Do you pahk ya cah in Hahvahd Yahd?" she caws in her tackiest Boston accent.

The laughter bubbles up through Santana's lips like a reflex as she shakes her head slowly, her muscles starting to relax and soften as she focuses on breathing and not the fact that the prettiest girl she's maybe ever seen is all up in her personal space on a lawn chair made for one. "Well," she starts, wondering where to begin and what won't bore the pants off Brittany or make her seem like a total loser. "I'm from Winthrop, which is east of the city proper out on the water just past the airport. You have to take at least one tunnel to get there…" She loses her train of thought when Brittany reaches for one of her hands and pulls it into the pocket, tracing each finger nail methodically.

"Umm," she continues, battling a dry mouth of nerves, "my parent's house is actually right along one of the incoming runway pathways so the jets fly super low and make a hell of a lot of noise on a regular basis, but you actually get used to it to the point where you don't even notice anymore. And you can see the harbor from my old bedroom." Brittany starts scratching lightly at her palm and it's oh-so-distracting. "The town is tiny where everybody is all up in everyone else's business, where our families have lived for generations and probably will continue to live maybe forever," she bemoans.

"But not you," Brittany finishes, Santana turning her head slightly to meet clear blue unblinking eyes.

"No, not me," Santana whispers, staring back. The moment feels heavy and meaningful for a reason Santana can't place.

"BRITTANY!" someone shrieks from the back porch. "WHERE ARE YOU? YOUR SONG IS UP!" Brittany sighs and rolls her eyes deftly before pushing herself off the chair and offering Santana a hand up.

"Cool your jets, Rachel, I'll be in in a second!" she calls back across the yard. "Common, San," she whispers, wrapping their pinkies together and pulling her back to the house. Santana feels her brain short-circuit at the nickname but allows herself to be dragged back into the chaos.


	11. Part 11

here's one more part before i leave town for the weekend at the butt crack of dawn tomorrow.

a million thank you's to everyone reading this, y'all are awesome.

* * *

"There you aaaare!" Quinn slurs, stumbling giddily into Santana as she climbs back through the back door, breaking her hold on Brittany to catch Quinn before she ends up on the floor.

"Woah there, killer," Santana harumphs, pulling Quinn upright and throwing an arm around her waist for support.

"You're missing the Rachel Barbara Berry show, I'm sure you're all tore up from the floor up about that!" Quinn snorts loudly into a deep laugh and Santana rolls her eyes in Rachel's direction as she crouches over the karaoke machine, queuing up the next song.

"Let's take a load off, Drunkie McDrunkerson," jokes Santana, speaking about both Quinn and herself as she tries to direct them towards the couch. They fall into it gracelessly, Santana tumbling half on top of Quinn amid a fit of giggles.

"Ow! Watch it with those pointy elbows, Lopez!" whines Quinn, rubbing at her ribs dramatically.

"If you're not careful, you'll get a pointy elbow somewhere else entirely!" bluffs Santana, throwing her legs over Quinn's lap and sinking further into the couch cushions as Brittany takes the microphone and the crowd begins to quiet.

"Wanky," barbs Quinn, landing her another quick elbow jab.

"Ahem!" Brittany clears her throat loudly, calling for attention. "This next lovely number is dedicated to all of you bitches," she states, nodding across the room. "Hit it, Berry," she commands, standing tall and winking at Santana quickly before her features turn stoic. The opening snare drums sound from the speakers and Santana can't help but cackle with laughter at the song choice, throwing her head back with glee. The bars of Mulan's 'I'll Make a Man Out of You' radiate around the room and there are spontaneous whoops from teammates as Brittany turns completely in-character, standing at rigid attention.

It can't be the first time she's done this song, considering she's got choreographed dance moves to each line and belts out each verse like it's the most important thing she may ever do.

"You're the saddest bunch I ever met," she sings, pointing around the room to the crowd of teammates, "but you can BET before we're through, mister, I'll make a man out of yooooouuuuuu," she belts, sidling up in front of Rachel and poking her right between the eyes.

She progresses effortlessly and hilariously through the song, each different character voice completely spot on. There's loads of fist pumping, bicep flexing and imaginary sword fighting through the climax, even a few perfectly executed high leg kicks for good measure.

By the end, she has everyone joined in in their deepest singing voices for the final lines, belting out repeated "be a maaaaaan!" in between hearty laughter at Brittany's antics.

"Mysterious aaaas the daaark side of the MOOOOOOOOON!"

Santana thinks she's never seen someone so goofy, graceful and intriguing in her whole life as she watches Brittany fall to one knee in center of the room, singing out the final bar with one hand extended to the ceiling.

There's raucous applause and pats on the back, but Brittany only seems to have eyes for Santana through the bodies surrounding her, catching her eye and giggling from across the room as Quinn starts to pet Santana on the top of the head. Santana throws Brittany her best stink-face.

"You're so fucked, Lopez," Quinn mutters into Santana's ear huskily.

"I know," Santana relents, her eyes still on Brittany. "Deep, deep trouble."

* * *

Eventually the party begins to die down. Quinn starts snoring on Santana's shoulder during Rachel's third straight rendition of 'Don't Rain on My Parade,' so Santana finally pulls herself reluctantly from the clutches of the couch and to her feet, yanking Quinn up by both arms and up over her back, lifting her easily off the floor and carrying her from the room. She finds an empty couch in a quiet study towards the front of the house, dumping her unceremoniously onto it and hauling up her legs. Quinn amazingly doesn't stir, just continues to snore through a wide open mouth.

Santana then goes on a scavenger hunt through the house looking for blankets, finding a few in an upstairs hall closet. She covers Quinn quickly and falls to the floor under her, stretching out and sighing loudly. In what feels like an instant, she's fast asleep.

* * *

Santana wakes to soft nudging on her arm. "Santanaaaaaa," comes a sing-song of a whisper. "Wake uuuppppp."

"Ughhhhhhhh," she groans, flipping onto her stomach and burrowing her head under the pillow. "What is it, Quinn? Leave me aloneeeee," she whines, still half asleep and definitely still drunk.

"I want to show you something," the voice whispers, closer this time as a hand rubs gentle circles into her back. Santana finally realizes the voice belongs to Brittany and not Quinn, so she rolls back over, squinting in the direction of Brittany's voice. Her contacts are crusty and dry, Brittany's figure blurred but super close, leaning on an elbow right alongside Santana, where it looks like she was also sleeping. Her eyes finally adjust to the darkness of the study and Brittany's hair is mussed in a messy bun, her eye makeup slightly smudged from rubbing her eyes and Santana can't help but think she looks more beautiful than ever, that familiar burning starting deep in her belly.

"What time is it?" Santana rasps, splaying out her arms wildly across the floor in search of her phone. None of the blinds are shut yet it's still nearly pitch black, the horizon beginning to break into dawn.

"Just before six. I'm going to need you to get up though," she whispers in her softest voice, as if she's already figured out that Santana is an early morning grouch. "It'll be worth it, I promise. And here," she opens her palm to two Advil and nodding to a full glass of water just above her head.

"Ah yes, you are perfect, thank you," Santana moans, throwing back the pills and chugging the entire glass of water. "I think I'm still drunk," she confesses, rubbing at her temples.

"Same," Brittany agrees, chuckling lightly. "Also did I dream doing karaoke or did that actually happen?"

"Oh that most definitely happened and it was amazing."

"It does tend to be a party-pleaser," she jokes. "Come on, goon." Two strong hands pull Santana to her feet, leading her quietly through the house and out to the back yard. As they pass through the sliding glass door and onto the deck, Santana notices a thick cloud of steam rising from the far corner.

"There's a hot tub? How did everyone manage to overlook this last night?" Her aching muscles soften at just the thought of sinking into the scalding water, the jets already bubbling rapidly.

"Let's be real, it's probably for the best. Someone probably would have drowned," Brittany reasons, yanking off her sweatshirt before peeling off her tshirt and tossing it aside. For a second Santana's frozen and all she can think is _abs, abs, abs_, because damn Brittany's stomach is perfectly toned into a distinctive and utterly lickable six-pack. Santana has to fight her own instinct not to reach forward and lay her hands in the spaces between Brittany's prominently protruding lower obliques and her hip bones.

"Come on, drunkie," Brittany prods, grinning mischievously. "Get in. You'll feel better."

Santana shakes the cobwebs from her head and hurries to pull her clothes off. By the time she gets her shirt off completely, Brittany is already lowered into the water, her head laid back against the edge of the hot tub and sighing deeply as she relaxes against the jets. Santana unbuttons her jeans and pulls them down hastily, feeling Brittany's eyes on her as her face immediately start to flush.

"Batman, huh?" Brittany teases, as Santana flushes even further, internally cursing at her choice of underwear last night before whispering a "shut up" and hoisting herself over the edge and plunging into the water.

The relief is immediate as she closes her eyes, each tense and exhausted muscle from the most intense week of training of her life loosening and uncoiling all at once.

"So far, this is the best idea you've ever had," Santana practically moans, while Brittany continues to laugh.

"You 'aint seen nothin' yet. Look," she says, getting Santana's attention and nodding towards the rising sun.

"And just when I think it can't get any better," Santana whispers, watching the sky turn to bubblegum pink.

"It is pretty great, isn't it?" Brittany agrees, never taking her eyes off of Santana and content to watch her instead of the watercolor horizon.


	12. Part 12

i'm back! and i survived both kickball tournaments with only terrible farmer tan lines to show for it.

a million thank you's to everyone who likes/reblogs/asks me stuff about OT, y'all are shining stars and i would like to hug all of you tightly.

* * *

"Chocolate or vanilla?"

"Hmm?" Santana answers distractedly, her eyes closed as she continues to melt into the steaming water of the hot tub.

"I think it was a pretty straightforward question, San," Brittany teases. Santana's heart skips another beat with the shortening of her name, reveling in the easy and familiar way it tumbles from Brittany's mouth like the most natural thing in the world.

"Chocolate. You?"

"Strawberry," Brittany answers, smirking across the water as Santana opens her eyes to glance over.

"Cheater," she berates playfully.

"Rules are for stiffs. Hermione and Ron or Hermione and Harry? Ooh! Or Hermione and Ginny?" Santana loves how Brittany's face lights up like it's Christmas morning when she gets a great idea, beyond satisfied with her own cleverness.

"Are you kidding? Ginny was the biggest badass in the books, I gotta go with option C," Santana laughs.

"Good answer. Ron was such a wet blanket most of the time, like sorry your brothers were all rock stars and you were lame but you were eventually one of the golden trio who saved the world and stuff, get over it!"

"Seriously."

"How about a guilty pleasure?" Brittany asks, another wickedly mischievous look thrown in Santana's direction while she swirls a finger across the surface of the water.

"Hmmm. Pretty Little Liars. Don't ask," Santana chuckles, shaking her head in embarrassment. "You? Wait, let me guess. Justin Bieber," Santana teases, busting into an impromptu rendition of the chorus to "Baby," and watching Brittany throw her head back in laughter.

"Maybe back in his younger years, but now he's a scrawny entitled little prick. Imma go with Taylor Swift. Homegirl can write hella jamz," her finger snapping for emphasis.

"Ewww, hella," says Santana, scrunching up her nose in mock-disgust.

"What? You prefer 'wicked awesome'? Sorry 'bout it!"

"Stuff it, Pierce."

"Hmmm," Brittany hums, pulling the corner of her lip between her teeth and narrowing her eyes while she ponders her next question. "Would you rather lose your sight and never play hockey again or lose your hearing and never listen to music again?"

"Now that's just mean," Santana chides, splashing a wave of water in Brittany's direction before turning her eyes back to the sunrise, pink bleeding into vibrant orange.

After a few moments of quiet deliberation in her own head, Santana answers. "I'd give up my hearing. I've loved music my whole life, but hockey _is_ my life, you know?" Santana turns back to a nodding Brittany, whose warm and affectionate smile splays across her features. "At least the music would live on in my own head, but I'd feel, I don't know, empty I guess. If I couldn't play anymore." Santana feels Brittany's toe bump softly into her ankle once, twice, three times before settling there for good as they blink at each other across the water.

"What do you miss most about home?" Santana asks, leaning her head sideways against the edge of the tub but turned in Brittany's direction.

Brittany gets a faraway look on her face as she breaks eye contact and is silent for a few moments. The corner of her lip turns up into the ghost of a smile, but her eyes swirl with clouds. "My mom's cooking," she finally answers, just north of a whisper. Santana has to strain to hear her over the noise of the hot tub bubbling. "Especially her shepherd's pie. Eating it was like this magic cure-all for whatever aches and pains I had, or if I was feeling sad." The heaviness in Brittany's tone pulls at something deep in Santana. "She was the best cook."

"She sounds like an awesome woman, Britt. I'm so sorry you lost her," Santana laments, her voice thick. She reaches through the water, feeling for Brittany's hand and squeezes it. Brittany holds on and laces their fingers together, smiling fondly towards the skies.

"Me too," she whispers, turning back to Santana. "But she's still _here_." She raises her free hand and presses it over her heart. "She's _always _here."

"And proud as hell of you," Santana adds, nodding and squeezing their clasped hands again. They're silent once more as the sun finally breaks over the mountains, bathing them in golden light.

Brittany breaks the silence first after a few long minutes. "My hands are super pruny now. What'd ya say we go rummage around the kitchen and see what we can make for hungover breakfast?"

"Sounds perfect," Santana agrees. "I hope you brought towels…"

"Oops." Brittany's lips form a surprised "o" before she breaks into a grin, pulls herself quickly out of the water, shimmies like a wet dog and scampers into the house, a long trail of water following in her wake.

* * *

Brittany reemerges from the house a few minutes later, towel cinched across her waist and holds another one open as Santana climbs out, wrapping it around her shoulders.

"How do you feel?" Brittany asks, her hands running up and down Santana's arms to dry them.

"Like I'm finally sobering up," Santana laughs, shivering involuntarily before reaching down to pick up her clothes.

"Come on, Butthead, my tummy's a rumblin'!" Brittany says, shutting off the hot tub jets and tugging on Santana's towel to lead her back inside.

* * *

They pull on sweats and tshirts from their respective bags enter the kitchen to find Quinn staring aimlessly at the closed refrigerator.

"You okay, Fabray?" Santana asks, sidling up next to her.

"Hey! That rhymes! You okay, Fabray?" Brittany parrots, popping up on her other side.

Quinn is not amused and looks rather like she got hit by a train, her eye makeup smudged into dark racoon-like circles, hair sticking up every which way and her mouth hanging half-open. "Water," she rasps, eliciting a chuckle from Santana who takes the cup from her hand and fills it from the Brita already out on the counter.

"That good, huh?" Santana asks, handing over the water. Quinn's eyes flit to her dangerously before snatching the cup and chugging its contents.

"I feel like death spread on toast," Quinn deadpans, stalking slowly to the closest chair and falling into it in a heap. Santana strategically places the nearly empty bottle of tequila right on the table in front of her

"Hair of the dog?" she suggests, half-joking. At the sight and smell of the liquor, Quinn greens visibly, lunges out for the trash can and barfs right into it.

"Gross," Brittany mumbles.

"Shut it, Pierce," Quinn groans, coughing roughly and lifting her head from the garbage to rest forehead first on the kitchen table. "Why are you two so chipper?" she croaks, eyeing Brittany and Santana skeptically. "And what time did we even go to bed last night? Did I sing *NSYNC or was that a dream? Last thing I remember is flip cup… Ughhhh."

"I guess some can just hold their liquor better than others," Santana teases, poking Quinn in the ribs before replacing the trash bag with a fresh one and hauling the rest of the garbage out to the garage.

"Fuck off," she hears Quinn yell.

* * *

When she returns, Brittany is whistling and shaking her butt in front of the stove top, swirling a spatula through a large frying pan and scrambling up eggs.

"Slice those avocados, would ya? Wez be makin' breakfast tacos!" she caws, nodding over her shoulder at the bag chock full of avocado on the kitchen island and turning back to the eggs.

"Brilliant," Santana mumbles, shaking her head and trying to hide her grin at how Brittany may be the most perfect human she's ever met as she expertly flicks a second frying pan, a browned tortilla flipping into the air and back down onto its other side.

* * *

One by one their teammates emerge from the depths of the house at the smell of breakfast. There's tons of water passed around, along with the full bottle of Advil because no one seems to be feeling their best, but all the eggs are gone in record time.

As usual Rachel will not shut her trap about the events of last night, which results in her getting a spoon full of eggs catapulted in her direction from Santana.

They spend the rest of the morning cleaning up the mess they made of the house, ensuring every chair and throw pillow is back in it's rightful place before piling in the cars and making their way back to the dorms.

Santana keeps catching Brittany's eye through the rear view mirror as she drives them back through town, her palms sweaty on the steering wheel the whole ride home.


	13. Part 13

it has been absolutely forever, i'm sorry guys. thanks for being patient. hopefully it will never be that long between parts but shit happens, ya know? and the world cup happened which pretty much consumed all my time.

you are all special snowflakes. thank you for reading this.

* * *

Santana feels something bounce softly off her temple in the middle of watching Finland captain Ella Linna deking through the Swedish defense like it was Swiss cheese. She startles immediately, her shoulders jumping up and her muscles seizing. She turns sharply towards the trajectory of the catapulted Lucky Charm marshmallow, a rainbow, and finds the offender popping a red balloon into her open mouth and smirking. Santana pulls out an earbud and narrows her eyes across the room.

"I really do have incredible aim from this distance," Brittany brags, sprawled out on her bed and looking down into the bag to pick out another marshmallow. A pot of gold.

"Watcha doing?" Brittany asks, nodding in Santana's direction.

"Watching Finland skate all over the Swedes," she answers, eying Brittany as she pushes every piece of frosted oat cereal back into the box with a pointed index finger, leaving only marshmallows behind in her palm.

"You're seriously watching film right now? The game is not for another week, you freak." Brittany's tone borders on mildly offended that Santana would choose to spend her hungover Saturday hockey-free weekend time watching and thinking about hockey. "I figured you'd say like, Orange is the New Black or something."

Santana draws her lips into a tight line and shrugs, feeling her cheeks pinking. "There's a lot of film to watch before next Friday," she mumbles, reaching for the earbud and turning back to her laptop.

"Can I watch with you?" Brittany asks quickly.

Santana gulps and nods, pulling out the headphones and throwing them on her side table as Brittany swings her legs off the bed and ambles the few steps to cross the room, pulling back the corner of Santana's covers and climbing in the bed next to her.

Santana curses sharply under her breath when she feels Brittany's bare lower leg press into her own and realizes she's not wearing any pants. She swallows dryly again.

"So what game is this?" Brittany asks, settling into the mattress and reaching back into the cereal box.

"World Championship quarterfinals last year, Sweden and Finland," Santana manages, clicking the play button. The game springs back to life with the Finnish attacker slapping a shot on net that is blocked away to the sideboards by the Swedish goaltender.

"That's…" Santana points to the player with the puck.

"Ella Linna. I know, butthead," Brittany interrupts pointedly. "You're not the only one who studies. I bet you didn't now Linna was Finnish for 'castle' now, did ya, smarty pants?"

"Who would know that?"

"My dad has a thing for Scandinavian family names," Brittany shrugs, her eyes trailing after the puck on the computer screen as Santana glances sidelong in her direction, shaking her head incredulously.

"Want some?" Brittany tilts the open cereal box in Santana's direction.

"Sure," she answers, grabbing a handful. "And I won't pick the marshmallows out."

"Whatever. Everyone knows they're the best part and pretty much the only reason why anyone buys the cereal."

Santana hates that Brittany is always right.

They're quiet for a few minutes as they continue watching the game film, Brittany continuing to crunch on dehydrated marshmallows and Santana trying to focus on the screen and not the tingling sensation radiating up the left side of her body where it's pressed against Brittany. At least she's not wearing superhero underwear this time.

"Ooh, pay attention, they're about to score here," Brittany blurts, her elbow nudging Santana in the ribs and out of her daydreaming.

Sure enough the Swedish winger shuffles the puck along the boards, gathers it and slings a sharp pass to the point where the defender is ready to slap it into the back of the net. Santana's mouth hangs open in confusion as she turns to meet a grinning Brittany.

"You're not the only one who studies, butthead."

"Fuck you," Santana grumbles, swatting at Brittany's arm before turning back to the computer.

* * *

Brittany falls asleep midway through the third period, Santana only noticing when Brittany's breaths become heavy and audible, the air pulling in through her slightly open mouth in deep rushes.

Santana shuts the laptop gently and closes her own eyes, leaning back into the pillow to chase sleep.

* * *

She wakes up two hours later slightly disoriented at the time of day as the afternoon sun reaches between the closed slats of the blinds, basking the room in a warm yellow glow. Santana is alone and notices Brittany's running shoes are no longer by the door as she makes her way out and across the hall to the bathroom.

She finds Quinn in a towel and leaning over a sink with her face close to the mirror, squinting at her reflection as she tweezes some stray eyebrow hairs.

"Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakens," Quinn teases, her eyes meeting Santana's through the mirror.

"How did you know I was asleep, creeper?"

"I saw Pierce leaving for a run on my way in here," Quinn answers dismissively, nodding her toweled head towards the showers. "Pee and then you are coming with me, Lopez." Quinn is using her bossy voice and Santana knows there's no use arguing.

The second she tosses the damp paper towel into the wastebasket by the door after washing her hands, Quinn latches onto Santana's upper arm and drags her out the swinging door and down the hallway to her own room.

Quinn's roommate, Jamie, isn't around, which Santana thinks is oh-so-convenient for Quinn's imminent interrogation.

Santana is freed from Quinn's clutches as they cross over the threshold and rubs her upper arm briskly before climbing onto Quinn's ruffled bed and falling onto it in a heap.

"Spill." Quinn's hand is firm on her cocked hip as she holds eye contact, her eyebrows pulled up nearly into her hairline.

"…spill what?" Santana asks, as innocent as possible.

"Don't you fucking play with me right now. Don't think I don't remember a certain tall blonde nemesis looking mighty friendly with you last night. And this whole past week, if we're talking straight here."

"I wouldn't exactly use the word straight, Q," Santana deadpans, the corner of her lip tugging up slightly at the corner as she tries in vain to hide a grin. Quinn only grumbles in frustration, motioning with her hand for Santana to continue.

"I don't know, we just click," Santana answers, lamely. "It's easy whenever I'm around her and I like it. Turns out she's not as bad as we thought."

Quinn tugs her bottom lip between her teeth and squints at Santana skeptically, as if trying to decide if she is holding back something juicy.

"And did anything happen last night? We were all pretty wasted, and we both know when there's Fireball involved, Lopez gets handsy." Quinn twitches her fingers in Santana's direction before turning to rifle through her closet. Santana ducks as a stray sneaker flies through the air in her direction, hitting the wall beside her head with a thud and dropping to the floor.

"Come on, Quinn. This is the Olympic team, I'm not going to go screwing it up by getting involved with a teammate. We know from experience that never ends well… cough coughCharley," Santana accuses, fake-coughing into a closed fist.

"You had to bring that up, didn't you? And stop evading. You seem even more love-struck than usual, and that's saying something." Quinn meets Santana's scowl through the mirror as she drags a brush through the wet tangles in her hair.

"I am not lovestruck," Santana argues unconvincingly, picking up the headband on the nightstand and pulling it into cat's cradle between her fingers. "She challenges me. It's attractive."

"Mmhmm." Bossy Quinn has morphed into Know-it-All Quinn. "I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that she's tall, blonde and gorgeous. AKA exactly your type."

Santana can't help but grin. "It certainly doesn't hurt. But seriously Q, this can't happen. Not with the games just about a half year out. This is our shot and not even smokin' hot Brittany Pierce will get in the way of that."

"You got that right," Quinn banters back, crossing the room to give Santana a hearty high five. "But for the record, I've got a crisp twenty dollar bill coming my way from Berry when someone walks in on you two banging in the locker room shower."

Santana chokes on her own sharp intake of breath and sputters comically.

"Maybe I'll buy you a drink with my winnings," Quinn teases, shoving Santana hard in the shoulder before turning back towards her vanity and just out of the reach of Santana's swinging fist.

* * *

The team spends their Saturday night in the dorm basement sprawled across rows of couches watching Angels in the Outfield on the large projector and munching on popcorn and candy.

Brittany lies on the couch directly next to Santana's, both of them leaning on adjacent furniture arms that are pushed together. Santana is painfully aware of the inch of space between them, her eyes flicking towards Brittany every so often, sometimes catching her popping a Dot into her mouth and wondering what the fruity candy would taste like on her tongue.

_This cannot happen_, Santana tells herself, but when Brittany catches her staring and grins wickedly while turning back to the movie, Santana's willpower falters just a little bit more.


	14. Part 14

you guys. brittanacon. my feels have not subsided since and i trust i will be this ecstatic, f-bomb-dropping fangirl for life. one who takes selfies with cardboard cutouts and drinks whole bottles of fireball while playing glee uno and stuffing myself with breadsticks. i am so happy to have met all of you amazeballs people, you're all perfect. oh and #brittanaordiebitches

this part is dedicated to my buddy ijustkeepitmovin who heckles me just enough to keep me motivated and tortures me every day with food blogging. mad hugz, brobot. 3

**character(s)**: Santana L. & Brittany P.

**summary**: Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years. now they're both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don't get along, okay?

* * *

As Santana pulls her duffle over her shoulder and exits the locker room, she hears voices. Stopping a few feet from Coach Taylor's office on her way out of the rink, she hears a woman through the slightly ajar office door and down the deserted hallway. It was late Sunday evening and Santana thought she was the last one here. She hadn't seen another soul for the last hour, save the rink manager who told her to kill the lights on her way out because he had a family to get home to. She and Quinn had decided to get in some extra one-on-one practice but Quinn bailed over an hour ago, rolling her eyes when Santana suggested shooting practice.

"…you cannot be serious right now, Eric," said the voice. Santana couldn't make out a face through the frosted glass, but the woman was tall and appeared to have short blonde hair.

"Look, Sue, we agreed when I took this job that this was my team and I make the personnel decisions." Coach Taylor sounded pissed off. "I _know_ the right players that we need out on that ice in order to do our best in February, and you can all either trust that or you can find yourself another head coach."

The woman gave an exasperated sigh. "The advisory board need to have a say in this," she reasoned.

"Not going to happen, Sue," he answered resolutely.

Santana saw the woman lift a menacing finger. "You're telling me after one week, one _single _week of double sessions and _one_ measly scrimmage that you've already seen enough?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am. You already knew I was making the first round of cuts after week one, so I might as well just rip off the proverbial Band-Aid, so-to-speak."

Santana's breath hitched as she started to put the pieces together. This woman must be Sue Sylvester, chairman of the board for the US Olympic hockey program and the one who hired Coach Taylor for this job.

"You realize Figgins and the rest of the board are going to have my head on a pike for this, right? You better hope you and your merry band of ice dancers have what it takes when the games roll around. Expectations are high and you know it's going to take _minimum_ silver."

The last women's US hockey coach only lasted for one Olympic games and was fired for failing to make the gold medal round. Santana felt the pressure of Coach Taylor's job security settle heavily onto her own shoulders, her heartbeat speeding up.

"I certainly won't be promising anything, Sue, as I've told you before. If there's someone you think who is better suited for this job, I wouldn't be here. Now trust me to do it."

The woman huffed with frustration. "I'm not happy about this, Eric, but for some stupid reason I'm going to support you. Don't make me regret it."

Santana retreated quickly back around the corner at the sight of Sue Sylvester turning to storm out of the office and made sure to take the long way out of the rink to avoid Coach Taylor finding out she was there at all.

* * *

Santana's hands were shaking by the time she made it across campus and back to her dorm. She was winded from running the whole way and threw open the door in such a rush that Brittany dropped the open bottle of nail polish she was holding all over her duvet.

"Fuck!" Brittany swore, righting the bottle on the nightstand and springing off the bed towards the paper towels, vibrant red polish dripping like blood from her fingers in rivulets down her forearms. "Where's the fire, San?" she asked, eying her visibly frazzled roommate up and down while wiping her hands and mopping up the spilled paint seeping into the bedcovers.

"Coach is announcing… final cuts tomorrow," Santana manages between breaths.

Brittany stops and lifts her widened eyes to meet Santana's, eyebrows pulling high up on her forehead in surprise. "Shit, already? How do you know?"

"I was doing some shooting practice just now at the rink…"

"Of course you were," Brittany interrupts, sounding both amused and not even a little surprised to hear what Santana was up to all evening.

"Shut up and let me finish, you can make fun of my overachiever-ness after." Brittany nods and her brow furrows into a stoic look of rapt attention. Santana starts to pace.

"I was going to leave and was walking by Coach's office and heard him talking with Sue Sylvester. The door was cracked open and I'm sure they thought the place was empty. Supposedly he's got his twenty players picked and the advisory board are not going to be happy. She basically said a week of time was not appropriate to pick the team and pretty much said his future in the job is banking on us getting silver or better."

Santana watched Brittany's mouth fall open slightly as she also realized the gravity of what Santana had overheard. Not only was the team picked earlier than expected, but now anything less than silver would not only be a failure for their country and themselves, but also a career tainted for their coach.

"I think we should keep this to ourselves," Santana thought aloud as she continued to pace the length of the room. "No use stressing everyone out even more, right?" she asks, turning to Brittany for validation who nods in agreement but looks just as worried as Santana feels.

"Quinn is going to kill me when she finds out about this," Santana groans, flopping face first onto her bed and burying her head under the pillow.

* * *

The next morning, Santana and Brittany arrive to the rink to find Coach Roz blocking the locker room entrance and redirecting all players to the stands. There's ten or so girls already scattered among the section of seats behind the far goal, a few of them anxiously eyeing Coach Taylor who leans one shoulder against the glass separating him from the ice and idly taps a rolled up paper against his leg.

Brittany follows as Santana finds a seat towards the front, sitting alongside her and knocking their knees together affectionately. _It's going to be okay._

Santana grabs Brittany's hand and squeezes it quickly in return. _I know._

* * *

"…Berry, Cohen-Chang, Corazon," the rink was dead quiet as Coach Taylor read out the names for the final roster, his voice echoing across the empty arena and up into the rafters. The uneasiness around Santana was palpable.

"Fabray, Henderson, Johnson, Jones, Lopez," at that Santana had sucked in a breath, holding it for a beat.

A few more names and then, "Pierce." _Exhale_.

She knew there was next to no chance in hell that either her or Brittany would not have made the final roster, but Santana couldn't help but be weary nonetheless. Some of her friends were about to go home after just one week of tryouts and she knew there was no consolation for that.

As Coach Taylor read off the last few names on the list, Santana could hear a few watery sniffles behind her, her heart heavy for her friends, but also soaring for her new teammates.

She focused back on Coach Taylor as he clears his throat. "You are all here because you are extraordinary hockey players. This doesn't change that. Thank you all for coming out and giving me your very best." Short and sweet and to the point seems to be the Coach Taylor style.

There are a few muffled thank you's and Santana keeps her eyes forward as the players whose names didn't get called stand and file out to pack up their lockers. She can see Brittany nervously bobbing her leg up and down out of the corner of her eye and fights the urge to lay her hand on it to settle her.

When the rink is quiet once more, Coach Taylor tucks the roster into his back pocket and looks out over the team. "We all know the goal, now it's time to start working towards that goal. That's it for this morning ladies, we'll see you back here at 3 pm suited up and ready to go."

As the coaches retreat to their offices, the room buzzes with excited chatter and Quinn throws her arms around Santana's neck from the row behind, trapping her in a loose headlock.

"We did it," she congratulates, squeezing Santana tighter. Santana can tell just by her tone of voice that she's smiling ear-to-ear, jubilant laughter on the tip of her tongue.

Santana feels a swell of pride as she let's the feeling sink in, a dumb goofy grin spreading across her face. _Olympian_. As if Brittany could hear her thoughts, she grins open-mouthed at Santana and reaches out to grab her hand, this time not letting go.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks for reading, everyone. I know the updates are short but I should have another part coming out over the next few days. I am planning to stick with this for at least a few more parts before I jump back into Unicorn Turds. As always, the reviews/likes/follows are always very much appreciated, y'all rock :D


	15. Part 15

hi guys, thanks heaps for reading and all the support (follows, reviews, all of it), you're all shining gold medals. i have so many warm and fuzzy feels it's insane.

**character(s)**: Santana L. & Brittany P.

**summary**: Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years. now they're both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don't get along, okay?

* * *

They just about get back to their room when Brittany's phone starts ringing. Her smile doubles when she recognizes the caller and swipes her finger across the screen, but rather than bringing it to her ear, holds it up at arms length and points it at herself.

Tears spring to her eyes as she exhales a "hey, Pop," and Santana can't help but sneak a glance at the man on the screen. Brittany's father has a weathered and unshaven face, a deep set of crow's feet flanking each eye even when he's not smiling, as if he had spent so much time laughing in his lifetime that the creases never left his face. His eyes are steelier than Brittany's, as if coated in ash, and are also filled with tears.

"You did it, baby girl?" He sounds like he can't quite believe the news.

Brittany nods, swiping at her tears with a forearm and humming her assent. "Yeah, Pop. Just found out."

As they make it to the door, Santana unlocks it and motions that she can make herself scarce to give Brittany some privacy, but Brittany shakes her off, shooing her into their room but leaving the door to the hallway open.

"I'm so proud of you, Brittany. God, I'm so proud." Santana's arms prickle in goosebumps as she watches Brittany stare back at her father and pull her lip between her teeth in an attempt to stop her tears. "And I know your mother is too," he said, his throat thick.

"I know, Pop. I love you," Brittany manages, offering her dad a watery smile, tears dripping one by one in long trails down delicate cheekbones. "I want you to meet somebody," she continues, flipping the phone around and pointing it across the room. "This is Santana, my roommate and now official teammate. Santana, this is my dad, Jack."

Santana waves awkwardly and offers a friendly smile. "Hi Mr. Pierce, it's nice to meet you."

"Jack, please, Santana. And congratulations on the good news, it's quite an accomplishment."

Santana feels her cheeks burn. "Thank you, sir."

"I heard you were the one responsible for Britt's black eye." His tone is serious and accusatory but he can't hold a scowl for more than a few seconds before chuckling. "I hope it wasn't her who did that to your nose," he adds as Santana raises her fingers to her still misshapen and bruised nose self-consciously.

At that Brittany spins the phone back around and guiltily admits, "I might have had something to do with it, yes." Santana thinks she looked like a scolded puppy and can't help but laugh.

"Brittany Susan Pierce." He tries to sound disappointed, but again fails. Santana picks up on some undertones of pride.

"She deserved it, Dad," Brittany defends, chuckling and glancing in Santana's direction and catching her eye. "And we're both over it, so let's move on. Aren't you supposed to be working?" she asks, turning back towards the phone and wiping her eyes.

"I snuck out when I saw your text and just had to call, but you're right, I should get back. Congratulations again, sweetheart, we are so proud of you." The 'we' must also include Brittany's sister, but Santana doesn't recall ever catching her name.

"Thanks Pop," Brittany answers, blowing her dad a kiss. "Talk soon."

"Bye Santana!" he shouts before hanging up. Brittany sniffles loudly and swipes at her nose with the sleeve of her tshirt and Santana can't help but blink at her across the room, smiling.

"So that was my dad," Brittany laughs, finally dumping her bag on the floor of the room and flopping down onto her bed.

"He's nice. You look like him."

"He is. And if you can believe it, I'm actually the spitting image of my mom." At that Brittany pauses, as she always does when thinking of her mother.

Santana can't think of anything to say, but has the urge to cross the room and hug her tightly. She settles instead for "Wanna watch some more film? We've got some time before lunch."

"Sure," Brittany agrees as Santana grabs her laptop and scoots back in the bed to make room, patting the open space alongside her. Brittany reaches to pull free her ponytail, running a lithe hand through her long hair to tease out the tangles before pulling on ratty sweatpants, setting them low on her hips and crossing the room. She falls down alongside Santana and splays one leg over her, all the while burrowing her head into Santana's shoulder. "Hey," Brittany whispers.

"Hey." The goosebumps reappear quickly and radiate across Santana's whole body down to the tips of her toes.

* * *

They spend the next hour watching Finland take on the Czech Republic, both commenting occasionally on a significant play or what Finns they need to look out for, but even then Santana has a hard time concentrating. At one point Brittany reaches a hand to scratch Santana's scalp and she practically melts into the bedcovers.

"Goalie is weak on the glove side, we're going to be too fast for her. Quinn, too," Brittany adds, drumming her fingers on Santana's forearm. Santana just hums in agreement, leaning her head against Brittany's and sighing contentedly. She could so get used to this.

* * *

"I hope y'all came ready to skate today. On the endline," barks Coach Taylor as they complete the team stretch and strap on their helmets. Santana makes her way to the end of the ice, taking a place between Quinn and Tina. The idle chatter stops once Coach Taylor takes his place in the goal crease, leaning over the crossbar of the goal and studying them all carefully.

"Be prepared to work harder the next six months than you have ever worked in your life." It's not a suggestion, but a warning. "You will push your bodies to their absolute limits and you will have days where you want to give up but you _will_ persevere and you _will_ be stronger for it. We may not be the fastest or strongest team out there in February, but we _will_ be the smartest. Limit our mistakes and attack the puck and ladies, we _will_ win." Coach Taylor says it with such emphatic yet simple certainty that Santana can't help but believe him completely. _We will win_. Her peripheral vision catches Brittany roll her shoulders and straighten up and Santana can't help but smirk. Coach certainly knows how to fire them up already.

"Give me everything you've got and more. And if you can't hack it, we'll find someone that will, because you can bet those twenty I sent home this morning would give anything to be where you are right now. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Coach!" they all answer, emphatically.

"Good. Now get on that end line, we're touching reds and blues in under 60 seconds, let's go. Coach Roz, on your whistle."

"Let's get moving!" Coach Roz shouts and then the whistle blows. Twenty pairs of skates dig into the ice in synchronicity, scraping up a flurry of snow as team USA takes off down the ice.

* * *

If Santana thought tryouts last week were grueling, it doesn't come close to how hard Coach Taylor is working them now that the team is set.

"LOPEZ! If you don't get those cement blocks off those skates of yours, you're going to be running stairs around the rink all afternoon until you find out just how long you can go before you pass out!" Coach yells from his position at mid-ice, riding Santana for lagging behind on the fast break play they are running. She grumbles a long string of profanities under her breath before turning back to start the play again.

"We're almost there, common San," Brittany encourages as she skates by, reaching her stick to smack Santana's ass quickly. Usually Santana finds comments like that patronizing and annoying, but coming from Brittany, it lights a fire in her she can't extinguish.

"I can barely move right now," Santana jokes over her shoulder, skating to a stop and waiting for the whistle. They are finishing up hour three of a marathon session full of suicides and agility drills and everyone is on their last leg. Coach Taylor only let them finally touch a puck twenty minutes ago and Santana has eyed the clock on the scoreboard every two minutes, praying for the final whistle.

When it finally comes, nearly everyone drops to their knees in exhaustion.

* * *

Santana can't help but pause and chuckle as she crosses into the dining hall with her dinner tray. Her teammates are still isolated in geographical cliques on opposite sides of the room, Boston with Boston and Minnesota with Minnesota, the rest of the continental US occupying a few neutral tables in the center. It's like how back in school the seat you chose on the first day of class usually was where you ended up all semester. As she makes her way over to Quinn, Mercedes and Rachel in the far corner (gingerly, as her legs are _still_feeling like Jell-O even though practice ended a few hours ago), she winks at Brittany who watches her from across the room.

"Get up," she commands, looming over the Boston table. She interrupts what sounds like a debate of the most iconic Broadway musicals, Rachel's doing no doubt, and is met with dopey looks of confusion and a scowl from Quinn.

"Excuse you, princess, we're eating," Quinn barbs, shoving another forkful of spaghetti into her open mouth.

"Just do it," Santana orders. Surprisingly they listen, pushing up from their chairs and following her to the middle of the room. Santana places down her tray on an empty table and starts to pull it adjacent to another. Rachel catches on quickly, moving to pull another over as Mercedes makes to rearrange the chairs.

"What's this about, anyways?" asks Quinn, a sassy hand on her hip and one eyebrow raised in scrutiny.

"This whole isolated table shit is ridiculous, we should eat together." Plain and simple.

Brittany is the first one to catch on and pick up her tray to join them at the long row of tables rearranged in the center of the room, her fellow Gophers trailing behind her like ducklings. She is sure to take the seat directly opposite Santana and starts up a footsie game under the table, grinning like Santana is the biggest goon on the planet. Santana can't stop the heat that creeps up her face as the rest of the team saunters over one after the other.

After they all settle, she speaks. "From now on we eat together, got it? USA all the way, bitches." She lifts her cup in cheers and the rest of the team follows her lead. All the while, Brittany keeps grinning that Cheshire cat smile.


	16. Part 16

greetings from costa rica! as it happens, the general lack of internet access in the evenings leaves ample time for writing, so here's part 16!

this chapter is dedicated to my dear mama u (nayas-sports-bra on tumblr) because reasons. oh so many reasons i don't have the words for.

**character(s)**: Santana L. & Brittany P.

**summary**: Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years. now they're both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don't get along, okay?

* * *

Santana bounces her knee nervously as she fastens her seat belt and loudly exhales the breath she was holding since she sat down. Her stomach is knotted tightly as she swipes her sweaty palms down her pants, wishing she could teleport to the scrimmage instead of flying. Quinn reaches from the adjacent seat to squeeze her hand affectionately, hazel eyes soft and sympathetic.

"Just crank up your music and close your eyes, it'll be fine," she soothes. "It's just a few hours, we'll be there before you know it." Santana envies Quinn's relaxed disposition and curses her own mother for passing down fear of flying to her offspring. Santana has vivid memories of vacationing as a kid and nearly having her hand broken as her mother squeezed it painfully during takeoff and landing. "And breathe, don't forget to breathe."

"Psst."

Santana jerks up in surprise at the sound just over her left shoulder, turning to find Brittany occupying the seat directly behind her on the airplane, leaning close to whisper right into Santana's ear. There are creases in between Brittany's eyebrows and her lip is protruding slightly outward into a pout. "You okay, San?"

"She's afraid of flying," Quinn explains, patting Santana's knee that is still shaking restlessly.

"Really?" Santana can tell by her surprised and amused tone of voice that Brittany is trying hard not to tease her. "I figure everyone flies so much these days that no one's really scared anymore. You know the odds of dying from a plane crash are like, one in 10 million or something insane like that, right? You're more likely to get struck by a piece of space junk while walking to the honkey tonk."

At that Santana lets out a barely audible snort. "Honkey tonk? Really?"

"What? Two-stepping is my jam," Brittany deadpans. "Seriously though, San, these planes want to be in the air, you really shouldn't worry."

"Yeah, I can't really help it," Santana mumbles, turning back around and leaning back into the headrest, pressing her eyes shut tight. Brittany reaches around the seat to massage her thumbs into the tense muscles where Santana's neck meets her shoulders and the calming relief is instantaneous. Brittany starts humming quietly into her ear and Santana's leg stops bouncing, her fists unclench and her breath steadies. _Magic_, she thinks.

After a few seconds, she recognizes the melody. "Toy Story?" Santana guesses, the corner of her lips twitching towards a smirk.

At that, Brittany's humming turns to quiet singing. "_When the road gets tough ahead and you're miles and miles from your nice warm bed_," she croons, twanging each word perfectly. "_You just remember what your old pal said_, come on San," she prods, dancing her fingertips from Santana's shoulders up the side of her neck.

"_You've got a friend in me, yeah, you got a friend in me_," they sing together softly. Santana loves the way their voices sound together, thick and creamy like melted cheese.

* * *

The pilot's voice crackles over the intercom, telling the flight attendants to find their seats for takeoff. Whatever peace Santana had found dissipates like mist, fear taking over to grip her like talons. Brittany seems to sense her increased stress, because she moves her hands from Santana's shoulders and opens and closes her fists, fishing for something.

"Give me your hands," she whispers as the plane taxis out to the runway. Santana reaches for them like a reflex. Instead of thinking about the imminent flying through the air in a massive steel bus with wings and the remote chance of plunging to a fiery death, she occupies herself by thinking about Brittany's hands. How they are a paradox of hard and soft all at the same time; strong and wiry, callused from her hockey gloves along her upper palm, and how the backs are remarkably smooth. She thinks about how at the moment, Brittany's hands are just about the polar opposite from her own damp and clammy ones.

Brittany is humming again.

Quinn turns to raise an eyebrow at Santana who is visibly green but manages to mouth a "shut it, Fabray." Quinn just laughs, giving her best _you're so screwed, Lopez__,_ side-eye and flashing a money sign by rubbing her thumb and forefinger together, reminding Santana of the bet with Rachel.

Santana finally let's go of Brittany once the plane rights itself high above the clouds. As she closes her eyes to nap, that Toy Story song runs over and over in her mind and she tries to distinguish whether her butterflies are from flying or whether it's just Brittany.

* * *

Santana manages to sleep the majority of the five hour flight, waking with a start as the wheels touch down on the tarmac in Grand Rapids, the brakes of the plane engaging and throwing her forward in her seat.

"You're not going to get out and kiss the ground this time, are you?" Quinn jokes, poking her in the ribs. "Or maybe kiss _someone_?"

"Shut it, Fabray."

As if she has a sixth "Santana" sense, Brittany reaches to scratch lightly at Santana's scalp over the top of the seat. "How are ya, Butthead?" she asks, playfully.

"Fine, thank you," Santana grumbles as they park at the gate, reaching for her bag underneath the seat and standing up so quickly she cracks her head on the ceiling.

"Smooth," Quinn laughs as Santana's face reddens. Brittany's laughter sounds like wind chimes from the next row.

* * *

Coach Roz reads out room assignments on the bus ride to the hotel and they end up assigned generally by their position and lines.

"Cohen-Chang, Fabray, Johnson and Rose, room 314," she calls over dim chatter and rumbling of the bus engine. The defenders all smile across the bus at each other, Quinn and Tina fist bumping over the aisle. Coach Roz calls off nearly the entire team before finishing with "Berry, Lopez and Pierce. 320."

Brittany rolls her eyes playfully from the back row of the bus, making a show of groaning over her roommates and exclaiming, "Berry, as I'm sure you've got some venereal disease that's highly contagious, I say we quarantine you to your own bed. Whatdya think, Lopez?" she asks, tipping her chin towards Santana whose nose is scrunched up in mock disgust.

Rachel opens her mouth to protest but Santana interrupts quickly. "Probably for the best," she agrees, before gulping and turning towards the window to hide a blush. The idea of sharing a bed with Brittany makes her limbs tingle in the very best way.

_Get a hold of yourself, Lopez._

* * *

"How many times are you going to do that?" Brittany asks, splayed across their bed and during a commercial break of the Jetsons. Santana looks up from applying the tape along the blade of her third backup stick and shrugs.

"Until it's perfect," she remarks, as if it was obvious. Santana's hands have started to tremor as it gets closer to lights out and she's had to redo this stick three times already.

"You're a freak, you know that?" Brittany's eyes sparkle like sun reflecting off crystal clear water.

Santana doesn't answer, her face flushing for what seems like the fiftieth time that day as she shifts back down to her task. With fumbling fingers and under the weight of Brittany's stare, she somehow manages to finish, inspecting the job close up before leaning the sticks in the far corner of the room and detouring into the bathroom.

She elbows Rachel, who has now been in the bathroom for over an hour doing her nighttime facial routine, out from in front of the sink to splash cold water onto her face and neck.

"Are you okay, Santana?" Rachel asks curiously, dabbing some nasty looking green paste under her eyes.

"Yeah, whatever," Santana huffs, clearly flustered. "You look like a gremlin. And get out of the bathroom, already. It's no wonder we don't have a fourth roommate considering you're impossible to cohabitate with."

She stalks from the room before Rachel has the chance to get another word in edgewise, flopping onto her side of the bed and stuffing her head under the pillow. She doesn't think she has been this nervous since pregame of last year's National Championship.

* * *

As they all settle into bed and Brittany flicks off the bedside lamp, Santana is practically aflame, her stomach tumbling somersaults and her mind turning cartwheels.

"Just a warning," Rachel calls from the adjacent bed, "I inherited my father's deviated septum so I beg your pardon for the snoring. Kitty complains about it incessantly back in the dorms, but there's really no remedy. I myself listen to the soundtrack to _Funny Girl_ on loop every night so I don't wake myself up."

"God," Brittany grumbles, turning to lie along her side with her back to Rachel. Santana can feel warm breath tickle her exposed arm, goosebumps erupting and her arm hair standing on attention.

"Goodnight, wolf pack," Rachel whispers, reaching for her iPod.

"I can work with that," chuckles Brittany.

"I guess I can too."

"Excellent," Rachel beams, proud of herself. "I'll keep pondering the hand shake. I was thinking also.."

"Goodnight, Rachel," Brittany and Santana interrupt simultaneously and Rachel is quiet.

Santana shuffles restlessly among the covers, eventually throwing one leg over the bedsheets when it gets too hot and going back and forth on whether it's more comfortable with her arms tucked over her head or her hands folded over her stomach.

"Fidget much?" Brittany asks, giggling lightly alongside her.

"Sorry. Just trying to get…" Brittany's finger starts tracing patterns into Santana's forearm. "...comfortable."

"Hey." Brittany's voice is such a soft whisper that Santana nearly misses the word completely. She pivots her head to the side to find Brittany studying her carefully by the soft moonlight peeking through the gap between the blinds.

"Hey." Santana's whisper back is just as quiet, her heartbeat speeding up.

Brittany doesn't say anything else, just stares openly, her eyes shifting back and forth between Santana's. Her heart beats harder and harder, so much so that Santana wonders if Brittany can feel the bed beating in rhythm beneath them.

When Brittany reaches a hand to glance her fingers along the bruises still bloomed under Santana's eyes, Santana stops breathing completely. Eventually Brittany's whole palm rests along the curve of Santana's jaw, a thumb stroking slowly along her cheekbone and causing Santana's whole body to tremble. Brittany exhales once more before leaning in and pressing their lips together.


	17. Part 17

thank you for reading and reviewing and sending messages and giving me all the fucking warm and fuzzies about these two idiot hockey players. the reaction after part 16 was freaking priceless, you guys are seriously the best. picking up right where we left off…

**character(s)**: Santana L. & Brittany P.

**summary**: Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years. now they're both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don't get along, okay?

* * *

If Santana could think of the best feeling she's ever had, she'd think of hockey. Winning the high school state championship. Getting the invitation to try out for the Olympic team. Scoring the game winning goal when it mattered most, when everyone was counting on her.

None of it comes close to the feeling of elation of kissing Brittany.

This is a whole new feeling. It's weightlessness, a complete and utter euphoria. A kaleidoscope of vibrant color bursting through a black and white world. Adrenaline surging throughout her body and stirring something inside her she never knew existed. Every nerve ablaze, every muscle electric, every thought consumed with _Brittany, Brittany, Brittany_.

And although she could never describe or explain it, Brittany tastes like home.

As their lips press together, all the air rushes from the room and she's breathless. The kiss is soft, Brittany's lips melding into her own for a few precious moments before she pulls away, her eyes drifting open to meet Santana's, clarity melting quickly to worry.

"Santana, I'm…"

"Don't say you're sorry." Santana's voice is a rough whisper, but the words are clear, the lines on Brittany's forehead softening as Santana surges forward to capture her lips once more. Her body moves of it's own accord, one hand tangling in Brittany's hair, her body shifting on it's side to be closer. Brittany's hand moves to the back of Santana's neck, tugging her forward. Always closer.

As Brittany's mouth relaxes, Santana pushes her tongue inside and she's free falling.

Santana never knew a kiss could taste so good.

When they finally pull apart for a few strangled breaths, Brittany presses her free hand to Santana's chest, her palm flat over an erratic heart. Neither of them speak as they pull in shuddered breaths, the only other sound in the room the wheezing snores coming from Rachel asleep in the adjacent bed. Brittany's smile could light an entire city and Santana can't help but return it, grinning so widely her cheeks ache in protest.

"Wow," Brittany says among an exhale, still trying to return her breathing to normal but not once breaking eye contact, not even to blink.

"I know," answers Santana, reaching to tuck a stray wisp of blonde hair behind Brittany's ear.

"I've been wanting to…"

"Me too," Santana interrupts, her fingers tracing delicately along the lines of Brittany's face, first her eyebrow, then the curve of her jaw before settling under her chin, gently nudging it forward to kiss her again. Brittany's eyes flutter closed and Santana is falling all over again.

They kiss languidly, their tongues moving slowly together in between quick breaths and wandering hands. Brittany moves a hand to Santana's waist, reaching around her ribcage before pressing her weight forward and swinging a leg over Santana to rest on either side of her hips. Brittany sits up and settles herself on Santana's torso, the blankets tumbling off her shoulders as she leans slowly down over Santana, her long blonde hair a glowing curtain surrounding them.

"You are so beautiful." Santana barely realizes she says it, but lavishes in Brittany's shy smile, the tips of her ears pinking as she moves both hands to Santana's face and capturing Santana's bottom lip between her teeth, running her tongue along it's length.

Santana moans and reaches under Brittany's loose and ratty tshirt, dragging her nails softly and slowly up and down Brittany's sides, relishing in the unconscious shiver it elicits. Santana loses track of time, all of her senses completely consumed by the gorgeous woman on top of her, her body burning, burning.

When Brittany eventually pulls back slightly, Santana watches her tongue dart out to lick her own lips before flitting up to meet crystal blue eyes.

"What are you thinking?" Santana thinks her voice sounds so small.

"I'm thinking about you," Brittany breathes, pressing their foreheads together. "And whether this is a very good idea."

"I know." Santana can't stop her hands from roaming the strong planes of Brittany's body, tracing the bones of her ribcage, then down to settle in the gaps between her lower obliques, thumbs toying with prominent hip bones.

Santana knows she should be more worried, but she can't seem to push this feeling of pure bliss and elation away, no matter the consequence. It seems Brittany is having much of the same problem, pressing their lips together once more in a chaste kiss.

"What do you think?" Brittany asks, watching Santana amid the moonlight.

"I think," Santana starts, searching for the right words. "I've never felt so alive."

Rachel snorts loudly into a cough a few feet away and Brittany startles quickly, slipping back into place alongside Santana in the bed in case Rachel managed to wake herself up. Santana's rapidly beating heart doesn't slow until a few minutes pass and the loud wheezing starts up once more from the next bed, breaking the heavy silence.

Santana turns onto her side towards Brittany, reaching to lace their fingers together.

"I just don't want to screw any of it up," Brittany whispers as she turns to meet Santana's stare, the worry lines returning. "We've worked too hard to mess it up." She pauses, and Santana forgets to breathe. "But I don't think I can stop kissing you now that I know what it's like. And I don't want to."

"Me either." Relief washes her like cool water.

"But I do think we should take it slow, try and keep it quiet for now at least until we figure things out."

"Okay, Britt." Santana smiles softly before Brittany kisses her again and settles into her shoulder.

"Night, Butthead."

Santana grins against the crown of Brittany's head and closes her eyes to sleep.

* * *

Santana wakes to the sound of running water and Rachel's muffled voice singing ABBA in the shower. She groans loudly and moves to stuff an extra pillow over her head when she finally registers the warm weight pressing into her shoulder. Brittany stirs sleepily beside her, reaching to rub at one eye and grumbling softly.

"What time is it?" she asks in a nearly incomprehensible rasp.

"Time for the early morning 'Rachel Barbara Berry' show." Santana tries to sound annoyed, but Brittany is snaking a hand around her waist and burrowing into her neck and she figures there's no use even feigning discontent. Their legs tangle together underneath the blankets.

"How many goals are you gonna score today, Hotshot?" Brittany follows up the question by pressing her lips to the hollow of Santana's throat.

"At least two," Santana answers distractedly, a fire building deep in her belly. "You?"

"Not sure, but I know it'll be more than you," Brittany teases, tickling her fingers across Santana's side and eliciting a snorting laugh.

"You wish, Pierce."

"Oh, I don't wish, I _know_."

* * *

Santana regrets sitting across the table from Brittany at breakfast because she can't stop staring and Quinn keeps catching her red-handed.

When Santana leaves the table for a second helping of bacon, Quinn follows like a shadow, elbowing Santana sharply as she reaches for another spoonful of scrambled eggs.

"Something's going on with you," she declares, turning fully towards Santana with a hand on her hip for emphasis. How does Quinn _always_ know? It's infuriating. Santana decides to play it cool, raising an eyebrow.

"Did someone roofie your OJ this morning, Quinnie? 'Cause you're talking crazy," she sasses, turning on a heel.

"And you're evading!" Quinn shouts after her. "You know I'm going to find out, so you might as well just tell me!"

"Tell her what?" Rachel asks, picking absently at a bowl of fruit.

"Erm, nothing," Santana answers awkwardly, her face burning as she has now the garnered the attention of the entire table. "Nothing to see here, get back to your breakfasts you hooligans!" she snaps, waving a hand dismissively. Brittany snickers from her place across the table and Santana's face only gets redder as she ducks down into her breakfast in a huff.

* * *

As always, Santana is the first one in the locker room before the game. Eminem is blaring through her earbuds as she parks it in front of her locker and begins to pull her pads on.

The room slowly begins to fill but Santana is already in her pre-game zone, foregoing any conversation and tuning out her general surroundings when she notices a note tucked into her right skate.

The piece of hotel notepad paper is folded into a tiny paper football, a shoddy hockey net, puck and a stick are drawn on one side and '_open me_' is scrawled on the other. Santana grins as she unfolds it carefully, her eyes quickly catching Brittany's from across the locker room who is side-eying her mischievously.

Inside there's a crude sketch of Beavis and Butthead playing hockey, a speech bubble over each of their heads reading "_USA all the way, bitches!_" and "_Let's Finnish them!_". Santana can't help but snort at the pun before tucking the note safely back in her locker. The urge to cross the room and press Brittany against the wall is nearly overwhelming and Santana rushes to finish lacing up her skates before she does something stupid like kiss perfect Brittany Pierce in front of everyone.


	18. Part 18

this part is a tiiiiny bit shorter than usual because i'm on my way out the door for the night and it seems like a good enough stopping point.

i have so much gratitude for every kind message and like and kudos and review i get on this story, y'all are shooting stars. thank you so much, i'd love to squeeze you all very tightly. seriously when you say anything at all about your feels i flail.

**character(s)**: Santana L. & Brittany P.

**summary**: Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years. now they're both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don't get along, okay?

* * *

All through warmups, Santana has been skating around the ice like a chicken with it's head cut off. Her movements are frantic, her decision-making poor and the easy chemistry between herself, Brittany and Rachel is strikingly off.

"What in the hell has gotten into you, Lopez?" barks Coach Taylor after Santana tries to switch direction so fast she falls hard flat onto her butt, sprawling across the ice. "You're skating like a damn bat outta hell! What are you, nervous or something? You're acting like you've never played a dog gone hockey game before!"

"Sorry, Coach," she mumbles, pushing herself quickly back onto her skates. "Just excited, I guess. First International game, and all." Even her voice is in hyperspeed.

"Well, get it together already. We've got a game to play here and I don't need my starting center making stupid decisions or falling on her ass all over the ice," he huffs, shaking his head in disapproval and skating off.

Santana takes a deep breath before there's a low voice at her shoulder. "If you don't tell me what's going on with you," Quinn warns, skating up closely behind her in the fast break line, "I'm going to tell everyone on the team about our Rookie Night back in college."

"You wouldn't dare," Santana counters, turning to glare back at her best friend.

"Oh but I would. You have until midnight or I'm spilling to Berry and you know _that_ gossip will spread like fucking wildfire. Little Miss Perfect Lopez just isn't so perfect, is she? And I'm sure it'll just be a matter of time before it gets to Coach…"

"Okay, FINE, jeez. Call off the dogs, would ya? Great friend you are. Let's just get through this game, I promise I'll tell you after," Santana concedes, turning back towards the team warm up just in time to see Brittany finesse past a defender and flick a quick wrist shot into the top corner of the net.

* * *

Santana gets yelled at twice more by Coach Taylor before the starting lineups are introduced and even Rachel has lectured her on lack of focus.

As both teams assemble across the opposing blue lines to face the flags hanging from one end of the rink for the national anthems, Santana slys a glance sideways to Brittany standing resolutely at her right shoulder. Their sequential numbers of 7 and 8 ensure they'll always be alongside each other for the pregame ceremonies and that thought alone makes the butterflies in Santana's gut go wild.

Brittany looks like she's about to crack up any minute as the music cues and the surprisingly full crowd shuffles to their feet.

"Not you too," Santana groans, turning to face forward to hide her embarrassment.

"I didn't even say anything!" Brittany defends not-so-innocently under her breath.

"Just spit it out," Santana begrudges, knocking Brittany lightly in the leg pad with the blade of her stick.

"You look like you've got a screw loose out there," says Brittany, failing to suppress a giggle. "Joe Cool."

Santana's face burns a darker shade of red. "I don't understand how you're so calm!" she counters, exasperated. Kissing in dark bedrooms while their linemate is four feet away in the next bed, talk about playing with fire.

Brittany dips her shoulder so she's close enough to nudge their helmets together before whispering, "I always knew I was going to kiss you, Santana, it was only a matter of when." Santana loses her focus at the feel of Brittany's breath against her ear and her stomach swoops. "I got past the freaking out part forever ago," she teases.

With that Santana turns incredulously towards her, catching a wink and a smirk as Brittany is quick to straighten up again just in time for the opening bars of the Star Spangled Banner, acting like she had said nothing significant at all.

* * *

As it turns out, the American team was not going to have as smooth of a go against Finland as they had enjoyed the week prior against Colorado. The Finnish players were bigger, faster and more experienced playing together than the young United States team, and Santana's general lack of focus seems to have become contagious across much of the team.

Their passing was disjointed, the energy level low and all of the momentum seemed to reside on the Finnish side of the puck. At the end of the first period, team USA trails by a score of two to nothing and Santana stares at the floor between her skates as Coach Taylor paces back and forth silently in the middle of the locker room.

When he finally stops, everyone seems to hold their breath.

"Who are we playing right now, Pierce?" he asks, settling on Brittany who is too amped up to sit and is instead leaning against the wall by the door back towards the ice, her helmet tucked under her arm.

"Finland, Coach," she answers clearly, anger and a touch of frustration in her tone.

"You're DAMN RIGHT, FINLAND," he shouts, throwing his clipboard to the ground with a slam, a few of the papers fluttering out across the floor. "I don't know where all y'alls heads are at right now, but it sure as HELL isn't out on that ice right now. Johnson, you stick better on Linnen or I'll find someone who will. Jones, both of those goals were garbage and we both know it. Gotta be better." Mercedes nods stoically in agreement. "And Lopez, I've already had to talk to you once, so I won't say this again: get your head out of your ass or you can sit the bench the rest of the game, do you hear me?"

Santana lifts her head to make eye contact and answers with a stern, "yes, Coach."

She meets Brittany's stare from across the room once he's dismissed them and made his way back onto the ice. As the team shuffles out one by one after him, Brittany lags behind, stepping in front of Santana before she can pass.

"Let's talk," Brittany orders, her face drawn in determination, reaching to push Santana backwards at the shoulder and shutting the door behind her.

"Look, I get that this is crazy and feels a little out of control right now, but damn it, Santana, you're playing like rank and moldy cheese. My little sister would be better out there on the ice than you and she's eight years old and not a very strong skater." Her resolution breaks slightly at that and a quick smile flashes across her features before she pushes it away. "I know you've got it in you, so fucking get it together already and let's go all Beavis and Butthead on these Scandinavian marshmallows."

Santana laughs loudly at Brittany's frustrated huff before pushing on her helmet and clipping the mask into place. "Let's go get em, then, Britt," she agrees, pulling on both gloves and hip checking Brittany on her way back out onto the ice.

* * *

another AN: i hope for another part this weekend, fingers crossed!


	19. Part 19

between nayas-sports-bra inundating me with ot headcanons for three days straight, watching miracle on my plane ride home the other day, a fucking heya picture from the glee set and the NHL starting up again in less than twenty days, my ot feels are nearly so overwhelming i can think of nothing else but these stupid fucking hockey players and their stupid fucking love story. thank you all for reading and coming along for the ride. also, if anyone has any headcanons of their own they'd like to share, i would love to hear and who knows, they may one day end up in the fic. my askbox (jennamacaroni dot tumblr dot com) is always open, or feel free to PM. happy weekend, y'all.

also, i've been thinking about making a kind of "hockey 101" reference page since some of the terms and stuff i use may make no sense to some. let me know if there's interest in that.

**character(s)**: Santana L. & Brittany P.

**summary**: Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years. now they're both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don't get along, okay?

* * *

At the referee's whistle, Santana glides up into the center circle resting her weight along the stick pressed across the tops of her knee pads, eyes trained to the Finnish player skating up to meet her for the second period puck-drop. The Finnish captain Ella Linna is nearly a head taller than Santana and her eyes a piercing icy gray as they stare each other down over center ice. They finally break eye contact at the referee's call and ready their sticks in mid-air. Santana watches the puck drop in slow motion, perfectly timing the swipe of her stick to beat Linnen and flick the puck quickly backwards towards Quinn. It's only her second faceoff win of the night, but she can't help but grin at Linnen who seems borderline offended she got beat.

"You better get used to it!" Santana shouts over her shoulder, taking off into the offensive zone after Quinn dumps the puck behind the Finnish net.

Brittany hustles to beat her defender to the puck and flicks it quickly along the back boards to Rachel who collects it easily and finds Santana cutting to goal. The pass hits her stick square and she takes one touch to look up at the goal before firing a quick wrist shot that beats the Finland goaltender right between the legs.

Only twenty seconds into the second period and Santana has cut Finland's lead in half.

As her teammates huddle around her, hugging and celebrating, Santana catches Brittany in an open-mouthed grin and laughing giddily, her frustrated attitude from intermission quickly evaporated as she throws her arms around Santana haphazardly.

"Guess I gotta score one now, huh?" Brittany jokes, patting her on the helmet.

"You're not scoring more than me," Santana scoffs, throwing Brittany a confident grin as they make their way back to the face off. "But good luck!"

* * *

Santana's quick goal proves to be the catalyst needed to ignite the young US team into a much better second period of play, the momentum very obviously shifted now in favor of the Americans. They are possessing the puck better through the central third of the ice and the quick speed of the attackers has the Finnish defense constantly a step behind.

Santana wins her fourth straight face off in the circle to the right of the Finland net, again getting the puck back to Quinn lined up over her right shoulder. This time, however, Quinn has a hard time handling the pass and it bounces away from her just before a Finland winger plows full speed into her, lifting her off her skates and landing hard onto the ice. The hit garners a collective groan from the crowd and Quinn is slow to get up. As the referee raises an arm and blows the whistle to indicate a penalty, Santana is already up in the face of the offender, knocking their facemasks together.

"Hit her again and you'll have another thing coming," she warns, shoving the Finnish player in hard in the chest and knocking her slightly off balance.

Brittany is at her shoulder in an instant, tugging her by the back of the jersey and away from the confrontation. "Easy, killer," Brittany warns, "we've got a power play and Q is fine." She nods across to Quinn who is now back on her feet but Santana continues glares towards the penalty box as she skates over to their teammate.

"You good, Q?" she asks, tapping Quinn's leg pads lightly with her stick.

"Yeah," she answers, shortly. "Get me that puck. I want to rip one."

"You got it. Listen up!" Santana calls, gathering Brittany, Rachel and Tina around Quinn for a quick huddle. "We're a player up so Britt, I want you to get to the front of the net as fast as you can for the screen, Rachel you'll be on the backside in case of a rebound. Quinnie here is feeling like cranking one from the point so I'm going to make that happen for her. Everyone got it?" They all nod in agreement before skating off to set up for the face off.

Again, Santana wins it cleanly and sends it perfectly to Quinn who winds up and hits a hard slap shot on goal. Brittany redirects the puck in mid-air with the shaft of her stick and it ends up directly in front of Rachel who puts it easily into the back of the net. The crowd erupts in cheers and just like that the hockey game is tied.

* * *

With two minutes left in the final period and the game still knotted up at two each, Coach Taylor calls a timeout. As the team huddles around the bench area, Coach draws out a quick play onto his clipboard.

"Butthead line, you're up. Pierce, you're taking the face off this time. Lopez, take the right. Your defender has been cheating in from that spot all night long and it's time we burn her. Pierce, you win that puck, hold it in your skates long enough to get Lopez's defender to commit, then hit Lopez in front who will one-time the shot," he explains, diagramming the play. The four involved nod in understanding.

"All right hands in," he calls, pulling the team in for a cheer. "_Who do you play for_?"

"USA!" they scream collectively, before breaking back out onto the ice.

The play works perfectly and this time Brittany tackles her so hard in celebration that she ends up flat on her back on the ice, all of her teammates piled into a heap on top of her.

* * *

"Listen up! Listen up," Coach Taylor calls, barely audible over the whoops and cheers among the players still congratulating each other in the locker room after the game. He clears his throat as the chatter dies down and holds up a puck. "Game puck goes to Quinn." He nods in her direction and tosses it lightly from the center of the room. "You were poised, made smart decisions, came back from a big hit with a great shot on net that led to a goal and your defensive play helped hold them to no second or third period scores. Good work," he congratulates.

He waits for the cheers to die down before continuing. "We started slow but we picked it up after that first abysmal period. Showed some toughness, some resiliency, and overall I'm happy we were able to fight back and win." Santana thinks it almost sounds like a compliment, but knows Coach Taylor is far from satisfied with their play, especially her own.

"Dressed and ready in an hour, y'all," Coach Roz calls out across the room before turning to follow Coach Taylor out of the room.

The second the door shuts, Quinn is on her feet and stalking towards Santana's locker, her pads still on from the waist down as she shucks off her elbow pads and tosses them back over her shoulder en route. She grabs Santana's tshirt and roughly yanks her off the stool in front of her locker and drags her across the room by the collar.

"Jeez, Quinn," Santana yelps, trying not to trip over her own skate laces that are loose and trailing across the floor. She catches Brittany's concerned but somewhat amused look just in time to be unceremoniously thrown out into the hallway and face-to-face with her best friend.

"Out with it, then," Quinn demands, scowling.

"Good game to you, too. You don't waste any time, huh?" Santana evades, rubbing at her neck where she was just wrangled.

"I've known you a long time, S, and I've _never_ seen you act like this," Quinn accuses, poking her hard in the shoulder. "You're drooling like a lovestruck puppy over breakfast, play the sloppiest first period of your life today and then you and Brittany disappear and when you're back on the ice it's like the light flipped on and you're back to normal. I know something is going on," she pauses, waiting. "You can't even make eye contact right now!" Quinn ducks slightly into Santana's line of sight and forces it.

"We kissed," Santana says in a rush, throwing a paranoid look over both shoulders to ensure they're alone. "Last night. We were sharing the same bed and…"

"And your tongue just ended up down her throat?" Quinn interrupts, accusingly.

"If your asking if I initiated it, I didn't!" Santana defends in a hushed whisper. "I mean, I can't say I tried to stop her, exactly…" she trails off and Quinn scoffs, pressing her hand to her forehead.

"S…" It sounds like a warning.

"It's different, Q," Santana urges, fighting to find the words to best explain what last night with Brittany meant to her. That this wasn't just a stupid crush. "Fireworks," she breathes, grabbing Quinn's hand and squeezing it for emphasis. "I know that's the sappiest way to describe it but fucking Disney World grand finale light-up-the-sky-so-bright-it-looks-like-it's-daytime _fireworks_. When I'm with her I feel alive in way I never have before and I'm fucking scared out of my mind about it." Santana stops babbling to take a deep breath to try and slow her rapidly beating heart.

They're interrupted by the creaking opening of the locker room door and Brittany poking her head out tentatively. "Everything okay out here?"

Quinn looks back and forth between Brittany and Santana through slightly squinted and calculating eyes. "You and I aren't done," she decides, shoving Santana in the shoulder and turning push past Brittany and back inside.

"I'm going to take a wild guess as to what that was about," Brittany says sarcastically, taking the few steps to close the distance between her and Santana and reaching to grab at the suspenders still holding up Santana's pads, tugging them lightly. Santana marvels how just having Brittany close by lessens her stress level dramatically.

"Quinn can read me like a book," Santana explains, smiling shyly up at Brittany's look of concern. "She's been hinting for a week now that she knows something is going on between us and after breakfast and my crappy first period today, I kind of had no choice but to tell her. I'm sorry B, I know we wanted to keep this between us," she laments, resting a hand on Brittany's hip and tugging her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Don't worry about it, San, we'll figure it out," Brittany soothes, snapping the suspenders playfully. "We'll talk to her, make sure she knows that the team comes first. Now come on, we've got Doc-mandated ice baths before we're allowed to get outta here and my tummy's a rumblin' if ya know what I mean."

Santana groans at the ice bath because they are the worst but grabs at the back of Brittany's tshirt as she turns to leave, spinning her back around and pulling her closer. Santana bypasses her lips to whisper huskily into her ear. "I scored more goals than you, butthead. What do I win?"

Brittany seems at a loss for words and Santana kisses her cheek playfully, taking off back into the locker room and leaving Brittany breathless.


	20. Part 20

i don't have much to say except MY FEELS. MY FUCKING FEELS ARE OUT OF CONTROL i literally couldn't stop them even if i wanted to. thank you all so much. also i'm going to bump up the rating on this fic because reasons.

i did end up making that hockey 101 post, you can find the link on my tumblr (jennamacaroni dot tumblr dot com slash fic).

also you should google ellie goulding's cover of kodaline's "all i want". you'll see why.

**character(s)**: Santana L. & Brittany P.

**summary**: Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years. now they're both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don't get along, okay?

* * *

Brittany spends half of team dinner staring across the table at Santana like she's a meal she'd like to devour and the other half ignoring her completely.

Santana excuses herself during one of Rachel's marathon rants on the health benefits to eating vegan and makes her way to the back of the restaurant in search of the bathroom.

As she sits down to pee, she wonders why anyone in their right mind could ever give up meat voluntarily, nevermind cheese, because is there really anything better on this earth than a good grilled cheese? And how the hell does Rachel manage to have the fuel to power her body through the insane conditioning and marathon double sessions of their practice schedule? Especially considering she must expel a tremendous amount of energy operating her vocal cords as she never shuts her damn mouth.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the handle to the bathroom jiggling aggressively and a desperate sounding rap on the door. "Someone's in here," Santana calls out, annoyed. There's a short pause before the knocking sounds again as Santana reaches to turn on the faucet. "I said hold ON!" she shouts, grumbling profanities under her breath as she dries her hands. The knocking doesn't stop and now Santana is really pissed. She turns the deadbolt and flings open the door about to give whoever can't wait a piece of her mind but Brittany is there in an instant with a hand across her open mouth, muffling whatever insult she had at the tip of her tongue and pushing her back into the tiny bathroom.

"Br.. Wht th.."

Brittany kicks the door shut with her foot.

Before Santana can get another word out, Brittany has one hand around her waist and is half pushing, half lifting her against the far wall, crashing into the framed picture of Gerald Ford who apparently had eaten at this restaurant a million years ago and it's still the most significant thing to ever happen there. The frame crashes to the ground but doesn't break and Santana bursts out laughing before Brittany steals her breath by kissing her roughly and open-mouthed, hands wandering from Santana's ass up her sides pushing up her shirt and back down again. Santana is practically seeing stars as she finds purchase against the sink and grabs at the back of Brittany's neck with her other hand. They kiss sloppily and hungrily for a full minute before Brittany is so breathless she has to pull away, her shoulders whole body shaking.

"Really couldn't wait to use the bathroom, huh?" Santana gasps between ragged breaths, reaching to smooth the wild flyaways from around Brittany's face.

"Shut up and kiss me," Brittany demands, locking their lips together.

"Britt," Santana manages between kisses. "Britt… wait."

"You asked me what you won," Brittany husks, moving her open mouth down the column of Santana's neck to suck at the hollow space at her collarbone. Santana can't stifle the moan when Brittany's tongue darts out and licks along a long, prominent tendon all the way back up to her ear and tugs the lobe between her teeth.

"Dear… God," Santana manages, trying to keep from collapsing to the ground as Brittany tightens a grip around her waist. "People," she gasps, trying to formulate thoughts. "People are going to notice… we're…" Brittany's tongue is now tracing along the shell of Santana's left ear and she swallows her breath.

"Let them wonder," Brittany whispers, continuing to kiss a path along her cheekbone until she arrives back at Santana's lips, sucking the bottom one between her teeth. Santana relishes in the just-barely-there traces of the dark and bitter beer Brittany was sipping on at dinner and allows her senses to be completely consumed.

Just as Santana moves to drag her nails under Brittany's shirt and along her perfect abs, there's another knock on the door.

"It's going to be awhile!" Brittany calls, her voice transformed into an exaggerated and high pitched southern drawl. "Somethin' here is just not agreein' with me, if ya know what I mean, sweetie! Shouldn't have ordered the chili!" She emits an exaggerated groan and blows a loud farting noise for emphasis.

"Ewww." Santana has to press her face into the crook of Brittany's neck to stifle a laugh.

After a few moments of quiet, Brittany slowly extricates herself from Santana and opens the door a crack, ensuring there's no one in the back hallway to discover them.

"Coast is clear," Brittany calls over her shoulder, throwing up a peace sign and a wink before slinking out of the restroom and back out to the team.

Santana's feet give out as the door shuts and she sinks the the floor in a heap.

* * *

"Took you long enough," Quinn calls obnoxiously across the table, sure to get everyone's attention as Santana finally makes it back to the dinner table.

"Upset stomach," Santana lies, hoping Quinn won't make any more of her extended absence.

"Right. And was Brittany bringing you some Tums or…?"

Santana feels her face burn but throws a defiant glare in Quinn's direction. Luckily Rachel finds a spider in her water glass and shrieks bloody murder, distracting the team from any further suspicion.

* * *

As Santana makes her way down the aisle of the plane trailing behind Quinn, her anxiety blooms acutely from her chest with every step, constricting her airway and quickening her pulse. As she falls into the seat next to Quinn, she's nearly hyperventilating, struggling for every breath.

"Sit, sit," Quinn soothes, taking Santana's bag and throwing it into the overhead bin and looking worriedly at her best friend who is now pushed up tightly against the window and clutching the sill, staring longingly at the tarmac while trying in vain to subdue the oncoming panic.

With a deeply furrowed brow, Quinn rummages through her own carry on, fishing for the inhaler she carries just in case. She passes the cartridge to Santana across the row of seats and calls for Brittany who is still making her way onto the plane, motioning for her to take the middle seat alongside Santana.

It's the first time Quinn has ever not sat next to her best friend.

The second Brittany gets a clear view of Santana her heart sinks. She has her knees pulled up to her chest and her eyes pressed tightly shut, struggling to pull air into her lungs as Brittany swings into the row beside her.

"Hey," she whispers, rubbing soft circles into Santana's back and taking her hand. "It's okay. You're okay." But the soothing words do nothing to abate Santana's panic, so Brittany does the only thing that comes to mind. She sings.

"_All I want is nothing more than to hear you knocking at my door. Cause if I could see your face once more, I'd die a happy woman I'm sure_." Her voice cracks as she whisper-sings the opening bars, but Santana's hands unclench just slightly. Brittany smoothes a hand across Santana's forehead and continues. "_But if you love me, why'd you leave me? Take my body, take my body. All I want is and all I need is to find somebody, I'll find somebody like you._"

"You have a pretty voice." It's barely audible, but it's there and Brittany can't help the chuckle that bubbles from her throat, pressing a quick and inconspicuous kiss to the crown of Santana's head. "Don't stop," Santana begs. "It' helps."

"Never," Brittany promises, continuing the song until Santana uncoils and relaxes enough to tuck into Brittany's shoulder, her breaths evening out little by little.

* * *

Santana chases sleep once the plane is airborne and Brittany drapes a blanket over them both, keeping a steady hand on Santana's warm thigh under the cover.

_I'm here._

_I know._

"That's the worst I've seen her get in a while," Santana hears Quinn say from the end of their row. "You're good at calming her. Maybe even better than I am, and I've been doing this with her a long time." Santana doesn't like the idea of Quinn talking about her, especially to Brittany and especially since she's right there to hear the whole conversation, but she can't find the energy to speak up.

"She's always been afraid like this?" Brittany asks, reaching her free hand to trace a feather-light finger along Santana's eyebrow.

"As long as I can remember. I think it really gets to her because the phobia is something she can't control, you know? She sees herself as this brick wall and nothing can penetrate that but the second she gets on an airplane it completely disarms her. She loses that control and panics."

Santana feels Brittany nod against the crown of her head.

"I know she told you, about the kissing." Brittany whispers, turning to look at Quinn. "You don't have to worry. The team comes first, we both understand that. And we've both worked for this and nothing will get in the way of winning that gold medal."

"As the best friend, it's my job to worry," Quinn counters, but there's no malice in her tone. "She seems different. Good different, for the most part. As long as she doesn't have another first period like she did today, your secret is safe with me. For now. But the second whatever this, whatever you two are, threatens the team, I'm going straight to Coach. Understand?"

"I understand," Brittany promises. "We're going to figure it out, we can't keep it secret forever." There's a hint of worry in Brittany's tone as she trails off and it stirs an uneasiness somewhere deep inside Santana.

"Hey, Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"Just take care of her," Quinn whispers, barely audible over the roar of the jet engines.

Santana moves her free hand slowly under the blanket and brushes her fingertips against Brittany's.

_Thank you._


	21. Part 21

it's been a busy last few weeks with a birthday and a music festival and friend in town and weekend in vegas but _finally_ we have a new part! thanks for all the messages, reviews, prods on updates, all of it. it still blows my mind people read this and want to flail with me about it.

also, remember when we found out our otp are getting married? i'm totally fine, really.

* * *

By the time the plane touches down in Denver, all the bags are loaded onto the team bus and they make the hour drive back to Colorado Springs, it's nearly three in the morning and everyone is dead on their feet with exhaustion. Miraculously, Coach Taylor gives them Monday off from practice, meaning the team has all of Sunday and Monday free.

When Santana makes it back to her room, she throws down her luggage and collapses into bed in a heap, not even bothering to pull off her shoes before closing her eyes and falling asleep with all the lights on and the door wide open.

* * *

Santana awakes to someone scratching her head. She leans into it like a pleased kitten as she rouses slowly out of sleep, smirking and sighing happily, her eyes still closed.

"You should take out your contacts, Boss." Brittany.

Santana cracks open the eye not pressed into her pillow and squints against the bright fluorescent lights of their room, past Brittany perched on the edge of the bed and to the clock on the bedside table. 3:55 am.

"And like, maybe take off your shoes too, you're tracking mud all over your sheets." Brittany laughs at the whiny groan that transforms into a hiss as Santana throws an arm over her face to block out the light.

"Here. You don't even have to get up." Brittany nudges Santana softly and offers her the bottle of contact solution and lens case she'd been holding. As Santana removes both lenses, Brittany reaches to tug loose both shoelaces and peels the sneakers and socks from Santana's feet, tossing them into the corner of the room. "Stinky feet," she teases, tickling one playfully before crossing the room to flick off the light as Santana burrows under the covers. She senses Brittany hesitate in the middle of the room, even though she can only see the dull edges of her silhouette.

"Get over here," Santana orders, patting the bed. Brittany exhales a ghost of a chuckle before climbing over Santana, tucking into the sheets and wrapping both arms around her tightly.

"You're the perfect size, little spoon." Brittany's breath tickles the back of Santana's ear and she shivers.

"Cold?"

"Ha, no, not quite," Santana laughs, pulling one of Brittany's hands to her face to press a kiss to her knuckles.

"Glad you managed to turn things around today, Butthead. My shoulders were starting to hurt from carrying the whole damn team on my back," Brittany teases, nipping at Santana's ear.

"Oh shut up," Santana counters, rolling around so they're face-to-face. "Guess it's a good thing I showed up to shoulder that burden from you, huh?" Santana teases, only just able to make out the twinkling blue of Brittany's eyes. She takes a few long moments to stare before kissing her.

When they're both breathless, Brittany let's out a long sigh.

"What is it?" Santana whispers, tucking a long strand of hair behind Brittany's ear and laying a palm along the plane of her cheek. Their faces are so close Santana's nearly cross-eyed.

"It's just that I'm really happy," Brittany whispers, pressing another lazy kiss to Santana's lips. "But also really sleepy." As if on cue, she lets out a long yawn and Santana revels in the way her eyes press tightly together and whole upper body tenses up tightly.

"Well it _is _practically sunrise, Butthead. Let's go to sleep."

Brittany responds by kissing her one last time. Santana tucks herself into the hollow where Brittany's collarbone meets her neck and they fall asleep just as the first shades of light blue bleed into the night sky, tangled up in each other.

* * *

Santana wakes up to Brittany snoring directly into her right eardrum. The crappy dorm window shades are doing a rotten job of keeping out the late morning sun but Santana guesses it's much later than they normally get to sleep in.

After a few minutes of bliss lying pressed against Brittany, her stomach grumbles loudly so she slides out of the bed as carefully as possible. Brittany mumbles incoherently before turning over, still asleep. Santana can't help but press a kiss to her shoulder before stealing from the room.

* * *

There are a few teammates scattered amongst the summer school students in the dining hall as Santana makes her way to breakfast. She arrives just in time before the staff starts the transition to lunch fare and manages to snag the last of the waffle batter by cutting off a few unsuspecting losers who are too busy staring at their phones. _You snooze you lose_, Santana thinks, as she pours the batter evenly along the waffle iron. While the waffle cooks, she flags down one of the cafeteria workers.

"Excuse me, do you guys have any chocolate chips?"

The woman laughs and nods, disappearing into the back room and returning with a small plastic cup full.

"Thanks," Santana smiles, plucking a perfectly golden-browned waffle from the mold and replacing it with more batter, this time sprinkling in the chocolate chips.

"Two waffles and whole plate of sausage and eggs? Someone is hungry this morning."

Santana cringes when she recognizes the nasally voice. Rachel.

"I'm bringing some back for Brittany, hobbit, what's it to you?"

"She didn't want to come make it for herself? I didn't see her with you when you came in." Santana knows Rachel is just being curious, but it quickens her heart just the same, as if she thought Rachel were implying something entirely different than an innocent breakfast.

"She's still sleeping," Santana says shortly, tapping her foot anxiously while the waffle continues to cook.

"Well, that's very sweet of you, Santana. To be honest, I didn't know you had it in you."

"Can it, Berry. What are you up to today, anyways?" Santana asks, changing the subject as quickly as possible. _Subtle_.

"Well, I was asking around if anyone would like to have an Audrey Hepburn movie marathon and bedazzling party, but so far I haven't found any takers. I even offered to make my infamous vegan queso, but everyone seems otherwise occupied." Rachel looks downtrodden and Santana has to stop herself mid-eye roll, struggling to find a her own excuse before spotting a familiar messy mop of short, blonde hair dumping a truckload of Frosted Flakes into a shiny red bowl.

"Quinn!" Santana practically shrieks across the room. Quinn startles in surprise but nods and makes her way groggily in their direction. She's still in her slippers and bathrobe and her hair is wildly astray.

"Pool today. One o'clock. And bring your water bottle, we're smuggling in booze," Quinn orders in her best no-nonsense tone, not even waiting for a response as she turns on a heel and pushes through the swinging double doors.

"Well, it _is _perfect weather for a day at the pool," Rachel sing songs as she skips away, her previous melancholy evaporated like the steam from the waffle iron.

"Sugar, your waffles are burning."

"FUCK."

* * *

Santana struggles to maneuver the key into the lock of her dorm room while balancing the full tray of food, coffees and towering cups of ice water in her other hand. Just as the tray is tipping dangerously to one side, Brittany swings open the door, a toothbrush poking between her toothy grin.

"Hey-a, whatcha' got there?" she asks, her mouth brimming with toothpaste suds.

"I got breakfast," Santana answers, setting the tray down on her bed and pulling out the two folding TV tray tables from under the bed and setting them up in front of Brittany's bed.

"You brought me breeeeeakfast in beeeeeed?" Brittany singsongs, pirouetting back through the open door and singing all down the hallway to the bathroom. By the time she's back in the room, Santana has the food divided and the silverware set and she catches Brittany leaning up against the doorframe watching her adoringly.

"_What_? It's not that big of a deal, get a hold of yourself," Santana says dismissively, beckoning her over.

Brittany takes her place on the bed and wraps both arms around Santana's shoulders, squeezing her as tight as she can. "Um, Britt?" Santana sputters. "You're cutting off my oxygen supply."

"Oops. Sorry. It's just I can't help but squish you because big, bad Santana Lopez is actually a huge gooey mush puddle," she teases, her fingers dancing along Santana's ribs and tickling her while she squirms in vain to get away.

"Am not," she counters stubbornly, swatting at Brittany's hands before pinning them both down and pushing her completely backwards and topping her. "Now stop making fun of me and eat the damn breakfast I got for you."

Brittany's eyes dilate before craning her neck forward for a kiss but Santana pulls just far enough away to duck away from it.

"No fair," Brittany pouts, her bottom lip pushed out in a wicked sad puppy face.

"Hey, no frowns, I made you a chocolate chip waf-"

"WHAT?!" Brittany yelps, throwing Santana off recklessly and dumping the whole ramekin of syrup onto the plate.

"You're welcome," says Santana smugly, clasping both hands around a warm mug of coffee and watching Brittany ravenously shovel food into her mouth. "Oh and Quinn wants to go to the pool later, you in?"

"Will you be in nothing but a skimpy bikini?" Brittany asks with a mouthful of waffle.

"Oh, you don't even know," Santana breathes, licking a finger seductively and swiping melted chocolate from the corner of Brittany's mouth before popping the finger in between her own lips to lick it off. That got her attention.

"Then you _know_ I'm in," Brittany answers with hooded eyes, before grabbing Santana by the front of the shirt and pulling her in for a chocolate-y kiss.


	22. Part 22

quick turnaround here. thanks as usual to all of you who read this silly story and tackle hugs to all of you who take the time to review or send me a message, even if it's usually full of screaming and cussing. these two idiots, i swear.

* * *

Brittany's tongue tastes of sugary sweet syrup and milk chocolate. Santana somehow manages to place the coffee mug down before one hand finds purchase in the back of Brittany's neck and the other the exposed skin between her t-shirt and sinfully short sleep shorts. They kiss long and sloppy, Brittany's nails scratching the bare skin of Santana's ribs under her shirt and teasing out a moan.

Brittany breaks the kiss to take a sharp breath. "On a scale of one to ten, how hungry are you right now?" Hot breath is right at Santana's ear before Brittany takes the earlobe into her mouth and sucks hard on it.

"Depends on what for," Santana manages, her body hot all over. Brittany's hands haven't stopped trailing all along underneath Santana's shirt as she moves to place hot and wet kisses in a path one-by-one down Santana's neck.

Brittany eventually pulls back after she's kissed and licked the full length of both collarbones. Her eyes are any icy blue and dancing with starlight as she looks at Santana, unblinking. There's lust. Hunger. Adoration. And something else.

"Shut the door," Santana demands and in an instant, Brittany is up and across the room, closing the door and clicking the lock.

As Santana watches her slink back, she speaks. "You know, I've never been in your bed before."

"Well, no better time like the present, then," Brittany whispers hungrily, before climbing over Santana, pushing her back into the pillows and finding her lips.

* * *

Santana peels Brittany's shirt off in between open-mouthed kisses, just managing to yank it off completely and recapturing Brittany's bottom lip between her teeth when there's a knock on the door. Instead of answering, Santana's eyes and then her lips find Brittany's breasts, eliciting a sharp inhale and a tug from the hand tangled in Santana's hair.

"…yea.. Yeah?" Brittany manages, calling to the visitor but making no move to get up.

"Pool. Now!" Quinn. Always with the perfect timing.

"We'll meet you there!" Brittany shouts, as Santana takes a nipple into her mouth and swirls a circle around it with her tongue. Brittany moans loudly and squirms underneath her, hands clamping onto Santana's ass and squeezing her closer.

* * *

"Are you sure?" Santana's hands tease the waistband of Brittany's shorts, grazing a hipbone as she leans on an elbow, watching Brittany carefully and holding her breath.

"Yes, sweetheart," Brittany breathes, smiling like Santana is just the best thing before sealing her answer with a kiss.

* * *

Santana is three fingers deep inside of Brittany when there's another knock on the door.

"Don't you dare think about stopping," Brittany gasps, "TAKING A NAP!" she shouts to the interruption before pushing her tongue back into Santana's mouth and gripping desperately at her shoulders.

"Well maybe," _kiss_, "you should," _kiss_, "work on being a little quieter," Santana whispers, stifling a laugh. Brittany just throws her head back, her mouth hanging wide open and eyes pressed tightly shut as her whole body seizes and she's falling, falling.

* * *

Fingers and tongue and _oh God_. Santana has to bite down hard on a pillow to keep from screaming. Mental note: add orgasms to the already long list of talents of one Brittany S. Pierce.

When Santana's body eventually unclenches and begins to relax, her limbs still shaking and core throbbing, Brittany extricates her fingers, licks her lips and begins the climb back up Santana's naked body, trailing a path of kisses along the way. She settles snugly on top, their hips fitting together easily and Brittany's weight the anchor tethering Santana to this moment. She leans forward to capture Brittany's top lip, sucking on it gently.

They lie there simply looking at each other blissfully for a few drawn out minutes, until Santana's breathing is even once more.

"That was…"

"The best thing ever? I know," Brittany agrees, pressing another soft kiss to Santana's lips and teasing out a wide smile. "You know what I love?"

"What?" Santana asks, running her fingers through the tangles in Brittany's hair.

"This dimple." Brittany pokes a finger into the small depression in Santana's left cheek, just above the corner of her lips. Santana grins wider and wraps both arms tightly around the gorgeous woman on top of her, sighing happily as their legs tangle together under the sheets.

* * *

By the time Brittany and Santana make it to the pool, most of the team is already there splayed across towels all over the pool deck, some already dunking and bobbing in the clear turquoise water. Santana easily finds Quinn sunbathing alongside Tina, Mercedes and Rachel on the far side of the deck and Brittany follows close behind, trying to step on the backs of Santana's flip flops to give her a flat tire.

"Well if it isn't Beavis and Butthead finally making an appearance. You get lost on the way over or…?" Quinn's tone oozes with faux-innocence that luckily only Santana knows well enough to pick up on.

"Well the campus can be mighty big an' confusing," Brittany interrupts in her best over-the-top valley-girl accent. "Took a wrong turn."

"Do you guys want a campus map? I have at least four copies, in case of this very.." Rachel trails off rummaging around in a hot pink tote bag branded with an enormous gold star so bright Santana has to shield her eyes.

"I think she was kidding, Gollum," Santana laughs, spreading out her towel alongside Quinn before shimmying out of her cutoffs and pulling the hem of her loose v-neck tee swiftly over her head. Her barely-there bikini is stark white against dark caramel skin and she knows she looks killer in it, especially after a summer of lazy beach days at her grandparent's summer home on the Cape. When she turns back to settle on the towel, she catches Brittany frozen in the middle of pouring sunscreen, her mouth slightly agape and the white lotion pooling rapidly in her open palm. "I think you've got enough there, Britt," Santana teases, snapping Brittany out of the trance.

"Um. Right. Can never be too careful with sun protection, they say," she fumbles, finally looking away and out across the water, swallowing thickly.

Quinn's knowing cackle echoes across the entire pool deck while Rachel just looks even more confused.

* * *

"You're not going to go in?" Brittany asks, incredulous.

"I'm not really the pool type," Santana bristles, scrunching up her nose in disgust over her open book at the sight of so many of their teammates in the water. "Do you know how many people pee in that pool on a regular basis? It's practically a cesspool. Gross."

Brittany moves to stand so her shadow passes right across Santana's face, blocking her sun.

"Do you mind?"

"Yes, actually I do," Brittany counters, her tone playful but challenging. "We need one more for pool volleyball and Quinn claims you're a ringer. So you're going in." It's more a statement than a suggestion.

"Oh is that so? And who's going to make me, huh?"

Brittany gazes down at her menacingly before nodding at someone Santana can't see. "Now!" Brittany calls, moving quick as a whip to grab hold of both of Santana's ankles while someone else sneaks up from behind to smack the book out of her hands and captures both wrists. Quinn. Before Santana has time to react and try to kick herself free, she's in mid-air being carried closer and closer to the water.

"You can quit struggling," Brittany grunts, holding fast. "We need that tenacity in the pool and I'd rather not have that gorgeous body of yours scraped up because you're a stubborn stick-in-the-mud."

"I am _not_ stubborn," Santana huffs, her body finally going slack in concession and her lip protruding in a pout.

"On three, then," Quinn laughs and in unison, they swing Santana forwards and backwards to gain enough momentum and release her on "THREE!"

Brittany's laughing is akin to a symphony before Santana plummets into the water and submerges.


	23. Part 23

at long last, part 23. if you're wondering what took so long, go and read the currently unnamed feels explosion also published here. as usual, thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing and tweeting and all that good stuff, still continues to blow my mind i have a single reader. tackle hugs for each and every one of you. i also should have another part up relatively soon assuming i can find some free time this weekend. happy friday, y'all!

* * *

"Brittany Pierce, I'm going to kill you!" Santana shrieks when she finally kicks up to the surface, smoothing the hair out of her face and looking around wildly for Brittany. She doesn't spot her for a few moments until Brittany finally pokes just her eyes and nose out of the water quite a ways away. Santana can tell she's wearing a wicked grin by the way her eyes sparkle and crinkle at the edges. She takes off immediately, swimming as fast as she can, but Brittany disappears under the water once more.

After a bit of a chase, Santana finally cuts her off and lunges to grab her by an ankle, dragging her backwards underwater until she can wrap a strong arm around Brittany's neck and into a headlock.

"Ass!" she scolds as they emerge above water.

"I warned you!" Brittany sputters, using both hands to pull at Santana's arm and trying to escape, but instead Santana wraps both legs around her tightly.

"You did not! And conspiring with my BEST FRIEND?!" she yells, eying Quinn maliciously who leans against the side wall of the pool not far from them. Quinn throws up her hands in her best defensive _it wasn't me_ look, but Santana just glares at her.

"You are a traitor, Q!" she shouts, before turning her attention back to Brittany. "And YOU," she warns, dropping her voice to whisper directly into Brittany's ear, "will pay for this _later_."

* * *

They spend the next few hours alternating between romping about in the water and laying out to sunbathe in the bright afternoon sun.

It turns out Quinn wasn't lying about Santana's volleyball prowess as she and three other teammates easily beat Brittany and Quinn's team in four straight games over the course of the afternoon. After game point of the final match, Brittany swims to meet Santana, a frustrated and somewhat incredulous look on her face.

"So you're some closeted volleyball shark, huh?" she asks, panting slightly from swimming and diving all through the water during the game.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Pierce," Santana banters, raising an eyebrow mischievously.

"Well, I'd like to know everything, please." Santana sucks in a quick breath when Brittany's fingers graze purposely against her hip bone underneath the water. Brittany quickly glances around for any teammates within hearing distance before leaning in close when the coast is clear. "Do you want to go out tonight? With me?" Brittany almost sounds shy.

"Are you asking me on a _daaate_?" Santana teases, wagging her eyebrows and catching Brittany's wandering fingers, squeezing them.

"Well, yeah, I am," Brittany answers bashfully, looking down through the water to her feet. "So, is that a yes?"

"Yes," Santana nods, splashing a wave of water in Brittany's face when what she really wants to do is kiss her.

* * *

Brittany mysteriously disappears on the way back to their room, promising to be home in a few hours and requesting Santana be ready to go out at seven sharp. In the mean time, Santana showers and calls in Quinn to help plan what she'll wear.

"A date, huh?" Quinn teases, rifling through the hangers in Santana's tiny closet.

"I know, right? When is the last time I've even _been_ on a date?"

"Probably that last Tinder debacle," Quinn says with a snort. "What was her name? Sus-"

"Samantha. And let's not even _go_ there, okay? And certainly no bringing it up when Brittany is around, thank you very much. Not my proudest moment. I still don't know how you convinced me to even get on Tinder, nevermind actually try dating anyone from it."

"Oh come on, at least you got some good macking action in, it wasn't all bad." Quinn can't stop laughing as she finally pulls some clothes out and tosses them onto the bed.

"Yeah until I realized she was a stage one million clinger. I practically needed a restraining order. Three dates and she had our whole future planned out," Santana groans, rolling her eyes.

"Well time to get back on that horse, as they say. Also don't think I didn't notice you and Brittany eye-fucking each other all afternoon out at the pool, either. Like be more obvious, would you?"

Santana freezes in the middle of brushing the tangles from her wet hair, meeting Quinn's eyes through the mirror like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. "Shit. Do you think-"

"No, I don't think anyone else thinks much of it considering you've been practically inseparable for over a week now. Just 'Brittany and Santana being Brittany and Santana' was I think how Mercedes put it earlier when someone asked."

"Who?" Santana demands, minor panic rising in her gut at the idea of her teammates talking behind their backs and potentially wondering if there's more going on between her and Brittany.

"I don't know, jeez. Cool your jets, Rocketman. So you guys kissed, you're going out on a date, it's not really _that_ big of a deal. And certainly not the first time teammates have dated, get over yourself," Quinn dismisses, now rustling on her hands and knees among the shoes strewn about the floor of the closet.

"Well-" Santana starts, guiltily, and Quinn turns to look at her pointedly, cocking an eyebrow.

"Well, what?" she demands.

"We kind of slept together."

"The whole team knows that, idiot. You were assigned in a room with Berry and no one in their right mind would share a bed with her, so I think that was assumed."

"Not _exactly_ the sleeping I mean, although we did do that too."

When it finally clicks, Quinn leaps to her feet. "Santana Snix Marie Lopez!" she shouts, grabbing Santana by the hand, yanking her to the bed and sitting her down roughly. "You guys banged?! When-? How-?" she sputters, her mouth opening and closing akin to a floundering fish. Suddenly she freezes, looks around at Santana's unkempt bed and springs to her feet. "God, am I sitting in a fresh sex bed right now? I feel unclean. I need another shower!"

"Oh don't be such a prude, Q. And if you must know, it was in Brittany's bed. Apparently chocolate chip waffles really get her going," she jokes, chuckling and licking her lips subconsciously at the memory of Brittany's sugary-sweet tongue.

"…and?"

"And what?" Santana asks, evading.

"How was it?" Quinn prods, grabbing Santana's chin forcefully to get her full attention. There must be something telling in her expression, because Quinn narrows her eyes and studies Santana closely for a few moments. Eventually she releases her grip and busts up with laughter. "Oh boy, you're so done for, Lopez," she teases, shaking her head in amusement.

"Oh put a sock in it and help me, would you? I'm trying not to freak out here!"

"Alright lovergirl, let's get you dressed and looking so fuckable Brittany won't even want to leave this room tonight."

* * *

"When are you going to tell me where we're going?" Santana whines, passing through the dorm door Brittany is holding open and out into the crisp September night. The horizon is aglow in bubblegum pinks and creamsicle oranges as the last of the sunlight disappears over the mountains and nighttime emerges.

"Movies," Brittany answers, moving to take Santana's hand but remembering they're still on campus and settling for linking their pinkies instead. Santana isn't crazy that their first date will be at a movie because she'd rather talk to Brittany than sit silent in a theater, but maybe they can hide in the back row and make out or something. Either way, at least she's with Brittany. On their _first date_. The butterflies deep in Santana's belly flutter acutely and she can't help but grin.

"What?"

"I like you, Brittany Pierce," Santana says, plain as day.

"And I like you back, Santana Lopez." They pause outside a black pickup truck as Brittany pulls a set of keys from her pocket, jingling them in mid-air. "Your chariot awaits, m'lady."

Brittany's smile is so bright as she pulls open the passenger door, bowing with a flourish as Santana climbs in.


End file.
